In the Valley of Shadows
by arrowsroot1918
Summary: Jacquelyn Meryck has always been different. As a 'Shadow Walker' she is able to walk through the shadows of time and memory, but when a jump takes her from her home in 2012 London to an unknown time in a country she has never heard of before, the Westeros, she will need to keep her wits about her if she is going to survive. Jon Snow/OC
1. Chapter 1

The bus was late and it was unnaturally hot out. Jacquelyn sighed and ran her fingers through her long, midnight black hair, blinking hard as though she was trying to banish painful memories from her mind. Her head was throbbing and she felt as if the world was spinning. She wiped away some of the sweat that was dripping down her face, as she turned back from the curb, and sat on the bench in the little bus shelter.

It was late summer early fall, and London was going through an unnatural hot spell. It didn't help that she was bundled up to the nines in thirty somewhat degree weather. She couldn't help it though; she had to be ready because it could happen at anytime. It would be any day now. Jacquelyn chewed on the inside of her bottom lip and cursed the warm fall weather – she would take an in ice-cold, snowy, winter day over this any day.

The cold was refreshing, the cold was revitalizing, and most importantly, she couldn't feel the cold. If you were to reach out and rest your hand on Jacquelyn Meryck's bare arm you would think that you were touching stone. Her skin wasn't hard like stone, but it was cooler than what you'd expect from a person. It wasn't just Jacquelyn though; every one of her kind was like this. They were just naturally cool to the touch, most people didn't notice because it was just by a degree or two so they'd just think that you were cold, bad circulation maybe, they had no idea. And that was exactly the way Jacquelyn Meryck liked it. The fewer people who knew the safer she, and the rest of the shadow walkers were.

Her thoughts were interrupted with a new surge of searing pain radiating from her temples. She hated this part – the never knowing when. It always told you when it was getting ready to happen, but never when it's going to happen. It was like a cross between falling asleep and receiving an electric shock. On the on hand its gradual just waiting for you to fade but although it was like deep down inside your body everything was speeding up with an excited nervous energy you could hardly contain. It was one of the many things she hated about what she was. It set her apart from the other children in her town. She remembered the remarks the other children made on their way to school as Jacquelyn stood quietly at the edge of St. David's property line, desperately wishing she could be among them.

Children could be so cruel sometimes, but sadly they often just regurgitated what their parents had said about her at home. Mothers gossiping amongst each other in the grocery store line, men talking at the barber shop – all discussing their theory about why Father Malcolm wouldn't allow little Jacquelyn to go to public school. Some thought that maybe she was too stupid for school and he was sparing her feelings. Worse than that was the theory that Father Malcolm was abusing her in some way and was afraid of others finding out some how so he kept her tucked away in the church. None of that was true.

The truth was that there was no way of knowing when she was going to jump. It was out of her control – how could she explain why she was gone for three months, or even three weeks without alerting everyone to what she was? The other thing she had hated about being a shadow walker was that it was damn inconvenient. Never knowing when you're going to jump made it hard to have a full-time career, going to school, going to Uni even having a family. The idea of a normal life, a life where she would get up and go to work, as a doctor or maybe as a lawyer before coming home – that lifestyle would be nothing more than a dream for her.

A breeze shook the small tree next to the shelter and quickly brought her back to the here and now. She stood up and walked back out to the curb and looked down the street to see if she could see the bus. She didn't live directly in London, but rather in one of the many neighborhoods on the outskirts of town. It was quieter there than it was in the main part of the city, but it was still busier than her home in the small fishing town of Tywyn, Wales. Her flat was small, there was no way more than one person could live in it, but it was cozy and it was all hers. There were a lot of immigrants, like her, in her neighborhood. She smiled carefully to herself as the thought about the Costalano's, her Italian landlords, and how every Sunday night they invited her over for dinner, and to meet one of their many ' good catholic boy' sons.

Jacquelyn saw that the bus was still nowhere in sight and walked back to her bag as it sat perched on the bench, with a tube-shaped bag and cap beside it. She sat beside her large brown leather satchel and dug out her phone began to scroll through her messages.

Usually, when she was waiting for a bus that never seemed to be on time, she'd just turn her headphones on and tune the rest of the world out, but something told her music would only make the throbbing pain in her head worse which made her even more bitter. Her one salvation-aside from hunting- in life was music, listening to it, making it, you name it. It was actually one of the few aspects of Shadow walker culture she liked, the songs. Shadow walker music was heavily based in drums, violins and other Celtic roots, simply because the shadows walkers had come from early Celtic origins. Their language was based in old Welsh but all of their songs were sung in Scots Gaelic – but their stories and their songs were their own.

She noticed that She had missed three calls and two texts from Father Malcolm – the texting monk, as Sister Benedictine called him. He had been a futurist, unlike most of their kind who were historians, so texting was considered to be an extraordinary concept to the Father who vowed to use it as often as possible.

"Are you alright?" And there was also, " Jacquelyn, answer your phone, I'm starting to worry about you." She smiled in spite of herself and quickly texted him back that she was on the way but the bus was running late. She looked at the texts again and couldn't help but hear his deep Scottish brogue reading them aloud, the thought made her stifle a giggle. She missed Father Malcolm, more than she had ever anticipated. She tried to picture him in her mind with his looming six-foot four, stocky frame and his thick black hair that had recently become peppered with white and grey flecks. She thought of his reading glasses perched on his nose as he'd read stories of their people to her, sometimes late into the night. This image of a kind father figure was greatly contrasted to the image of the fierce warrior who could silently kill a man from hundreds of meters away. She wondered to herself how many people saw both sides of Father Malcolm the way she had – how many people would see both sides of her? There had been one already, but that was a long time ago and she hardly ever thought about him, she just couldn't- it was too painful. Instinctively her hands reached up to the silver chain and traced around the large turquoise pendant surrounded by a plate of silver and small sparking gems. Her breathing still wavered when she thought of him and that night – it was the one memory she would never relive, never. She jerked her hand away from the pendant and tucked it back under her jacket and looked back out to the empty street.

'Seriously' she thought, ' where the hell is that damned bus?'

She tucked her phone back into her bag, rummaged around a bit until she found her compact mirror and checked her reflection. The wind was doing a number on her hair – but that couldn't be helped – but it was her eyes she wanted to check. If she could pick one feature of hers that she liked the most, it would be her eyes. They were big and round like a doe's but it was their colour that made most people stop and stare. Her eyes combined a pale grey, like the winter sky, with a small ring of ice blue just around the pupil; there was something about the combination that made her eyes seem even bigger and brighter, it made her unique even among her kind.

She set the mirror back into its pocket inside her satchel. Her 'travel bag,' as Father Malcolm had called it when he gave it to her for her 18th birthday. The bag was to be stocked with essential items, some medicine, bandages, a guide to various plants and their purposes, a set of very sharp knives and a leather belt to holster them. There were a few other items in there like: her good grey cloak that Sister Marielena (Marie-Elena) had made for her based off of the Lord of the Rings movies, except hers would actually keep her warm because it was lines with the same fox fur that lined Jacquelyn's leather boots; and then there was her pride and joy – her arm braces. They were made of sturdy brown leather and hand carved with an intricate Celtic knot featuring three hawks following one another in a circle; that had been her nickname back at St. David's cathedral – the Hawk. It had started out as a joke among the Sisters and Brother Jacob, because of how protective Jacquelyn had become when they began to bring in children to the Cathedral, children like her, and like everyone who lived in St. David's. For a few years she worked at the cathedral training the children on how to survive after a jump by hunting, identifying the various plants and how to use them to heal various injuries or illnesses, and what to do when they came across 'the locals.'

That was always the most dangerous part, you can get by no problem alone in a forest, but what do you do when you come across a village – how do you explain your strange appearance, and where you come from? To tell the truth, as a child is prone to do, no one would believe you or think you mad, but what was even worse was when they did believe you, because if they believed you then it would most certainly be burned as a witch.

Trying to explain what a shadow walker is to a human is never an easy feat which is one of the reasons why so few of them even bother. It's amazing how long you can go with no one suspecting what you really are until simply because they look and act just like humans – well they were in some ways human, but more like just a different breed of human. Like in dogs where there are many breeds and types, shadow walkers were simply a different breed or type of human, but they seldom refer to themselves as such.

There were actually a lot of different names for the shadow walkers – some ancient societies called them time lords (except they had no control over when and where they travelled to so using the term 'lord' was a little presumptuous), the druids and other pagan cultures had referred to them as the shadow demons - except she didn't like anything with the term demon, she was raised in a Catholic cathedral, demons were evil. Out of all the terms Jacquelyn preferred Shadow walker, or cysgod rhodwyr in their native language; it was the closest to the truth because they walked in the shadows, the shadows of time and memory that is.

Thinking about it all only made her head hurt even more. Closing her eyes tightly, to block out the sun that was now poking through the branches, she massaged her temples trying to dull the pain.

The wind began to pick up causing the leaves, that had already fallen in anticipation of autumn, to dance and swirl around her feet. Leaning against the back of the shelter, Jacquelyn felt her strength begin to fade, it was a struggle just to keep her eyes open. She leaned back and closed her eyes, feeling the warmth and the sun on her face slowly fade away; it was soon replaced with sharp cold winds. She couldn't have closed her eyes for more than a couple of minutes, but by the time she opened them, she was no longer sitting on a bus bench outside of London.

She was laying in the snow somewhere in the middle of a forest in the dead of winter with several, heavily armed, knights surrounding her.


	2. Chapter 2

Jacquelyn sat up, too weak from the jump to stand, and looked up at the men who surrounded her, blinking, trying to adjust her eyes to the light.

" On behalf of her Ladyship, Lysa Tully, acting regent of the Eyrie, I command you to identify yourself and your business in the Eyrie." One of the knights voice boomed. She covered her ears to block out some of the noise – why did he have to be so loud?

Her head was still feeling a little jumbled and it took her a moment or two before she was able to answer, " my name," she paused trying to remember her name.

God she hated jumping; it always scrambled her brain, and she almost always came off sounding like a moron.

She dug out her cloak and threw it around her shoulders to buy her a few more seconds of time. "My name is Jacquelyn Meryck." She said quickly once it came back to her.

"Well Jacquelyn Meryck, what is your business here in the Eyrie?" The knight demanded to know.

Jacquelyn placed a hand on her head and tried to think quickly but several questions popped in to her mind that prevented her from giving him an immediate answer. First of all, what or where the hell was the Eyrie, and secondly, who the hell were these guys? She wracked her brain trying to come up with a plausible story but she was not quick enough. Before she had a chance to answer the knight's question another knight jumped down from his mount and picked up her bag.

"Give that back," she snapped trying to stand and grab her bag back, but her legs were not yet strong enough, and she fell back into the snow causing several of the knights to burst into robust laughter.

'Jerks,' she thought as she slowly got back up to her feet again.

Ignoring her pleas the knight began to rummage through her bag, emptying the contents on the ground in the process. After a moment or so of digging he came across something that made him stop.

Her heart stopped as he held something out of her eye sight in his hands. Had he found the compartment at the bottom of her bag where she hid her iphone? It was the one thing from the future she had taken with her that could cause alarm with minds as simple as these knights.

" She has knives, sharp ones at that- and what's this?" he picked up her bow and quiver opening the top of the quiver to examine its contents, " a quiver too m'lord." The knight looked back at her slim but athletic figure. "If I had to guess I'd say she's a hunter's aid."

"A hunter's aid?" Jacquelyn looked at the knight feeling more than slightly offended. True she was a little shaky on her feet at the moment, and did not look like much in terms of power or agility but that was her bow and her arrows, and she had done more than enough in her life to earn the title of hunter.

But he and his companions ignored her, "hunting is banned in the Eyrie unless authorized by Lady Tully," The first knight spoke again, "tell us who your companion is, and you will be shown mercy."

"I don't have a companion," Jacquelyn argued, " I am here, alone, and those items belong to no one but myself. I have done no hunting on your grounds. I am simply passing through and have lost my way."

The knights laughed, " a woman, hunt?"

The first knight jeered at her, "I have never heard of anything so outrageous in all my years."

Jacquelyn rolled her eyes impatiently, "well of course that would be outrageous to you; you're a chauvinistic pig incapable of understanding gender equality." Her legs trembled slightly under her weight, but she was determined not to look weak in front of this idiot and his merry band of morons.

"What kind of pig?" The knight asked both confused and deeply angered by her words.

"What? Was that too big of a word for your unevolved brain to understand?" She asked annoyed. After the words left her lips she immediately regretted them. Especially when she saw the knight get off of his horse and, with long brisk strides, walk towards her. She often forgot that this was a time where women were not as outspoken as Jacquelyn was accustomed too – women were suppose to be mild and timid. Something that she could never be – not that she really tried, what was the point of living if you were unable to give your opinion or think for yourself?

Father Malcolm often said that her inability to control her tongue would get her into a great deal of trouble one day, and that day was today - again.

Without removing his glove the knight slapped her full across the face with as much strength as his large frame allowed him.

The force of his hand caused her to stagger back, but her pride refused to let her yelp in pain or fall back down. Instead she leaned over, spat out the pool of blood that quickly formed in her mouth onto the crisp white snow, and looked back at him defiantly. She had dealt with men like this before; knights who used fear and violence against women to try and control them – men like him made her sick. Thinking that because they had a 'sir' in front of their name meant they deserved respect, that it was something that could be freely given rather than earned,

"You will watch your tongue when you speak, wench," he growled at her, raising his hand to hit her again if she spoke back. When she said nothing he looked back to his men and ordered them to bind her wrists. " We'll take her back to Lady Tully, and let her decide what should be done with her." With one effortless motion he was back on top of his horse and some of the lower ranking knights had begun to come towards her with rope for her wrists and feet.

Jacquelyn weighed her possible options in her mind while waiting for the knights to draw closer. On the one hand she could actually behave and let them take her hostage, have them take her to whatever sovereign they had, where she would most likely be tortured for information about her so called companion, before they either released her, or killed her.

Her other option was to try and make a break for it through the clearing just a couple yards away where could likely lose them by climbing high up into a tree that would not support the full weight of their iron mail and wait them out. The problem with that choice was while she was sure she could out run them on foot and out climb them, they were on horse back, and judging from the quality breeds of the horses they were fast and could easily out run her before she even made it to the nearest tree. And much to her dismay, she was still weak from the jump and her legs were not likely to handle the strain of the kind of endurance running needed in order for her to gain the freedom she was becoming desperate to desire.

Her best bet for survival was to comply quietly and allow herself to be bound and carted off to an unknown fate, however the choice had been clearly made for her. No sooner had one of the knights approached her with the rope in his hands, but there was a sickening thud of the hard metal of a sword hilt hitting bone, and her world returned to the darkness once more.

Jacquelyn had no idea how long she had been unconscious when she woke up on a hard stone floor bathed in the pale moonlight. Her head throbbed from two spots and her wrists burned from were the rope had rubbed her skin raw. What the hell was that rope laced with- fire ants? She looked at her wrists in the moonlight, for it was the only source of available to her in the jail. There was not so much as a torch to illuminate the hall outside of her cell. It took her a moment or two before she became curious as to how there was such an abundance of moonlight available to her in a jail cell – weren't the dungeons always kept underground as means to drive the inmates mad? It only took a cursory glance around for her to understand. Along the south side, where there should have been wall, there was nothing. Clearly whose ever castle this was, had intended to use an entirely different method to drive their prisoners mad. Slowly, and carefully, she edged her way to the edge of the south side to get a better look of what exactly she was dealing with, and how far down the slope went.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a male voice echoed in the shadows.

Jacquelyn's head snapped back towards the door and scanned for any trace of another inmate lurking in the shadows. "Who's there?" She asked, trying to prevent her voice from revealing the ball of fear that was growing deep in the pit of her stomach. "Sh-sh-show yourself," her voice faltered. Her day was not going as planned: she was tired, in a strange place that she had never heard of, locked in a jail cell with some stranger; who for all she knew was a rapist, and if he had half the mind to do anything she probably would not be able to stop him given the state of her body- bruised, cut up, weak and sore. It was enough to make a girl want to curl up into a ball and sob, but Jacquelyn Meryck wasn't the kind to just fall apart; if she was, she would have died long ago. Father Malcolm had a saying, eyes open, and it was a rule that Jacquelyn lived by. Out in the forest she had been weak, and not thinking clearly, and she was paying for it, but now she was just angry. She'd find away out of this mess, and she'd be sure to find a way of showing them that they hadn't beaten her, that she was stronger than they were. And she would get her revenge against the knight who had slapped her – she had a score to settle.

A movement in the shadows caught her attention and her eyes scanned the room until she saw him. A funny looking dwarf of a man standing out of the shadows and in the light of the night, "Lord Tyrion Lannister, at you service." He gave her a small formal bow, which immediately signaled to her that he was of noble birth, well that and the fact he had introduced himself as 'Lord Tyrion' but she tried not to focus on that. A keen sense of observation was crucial for survival doing what she did, so she studied him.

He was by not by any stretch of the imagination what one would call handsome. He had tuffs of whitish blonde hair, a large jutting forehead, short stubby legs, but the only feature Jacquelyn cared about were his eyes. In all of her twenty-six years she trusted one thing above all else and that was that: the only feature that was capable of speaking volumes about ones character were their eyes. He had curious eyes, one black and one green – each with conflicting opinions of their master. His black eyes suggested a sharp mind used for inflicting cruelty, lust that only a certain kind of woman could fulfill, and great ambition; but his green eyes suggested a great depth of compassion for those who society had mistreated as outcasts like himself, it also suggested a troubled childhood and desire to prove his worth to those around him.

"Well get on with it," he said aggresivly, his words coming from a place of anger, or perhaps experience. "Well?" He asked growing impatient with her silence, " aren't you going to laugh or say something about my size," he goaded her.

Jacquelyn sized him up, looking up and down at his small frame and gave him a casual shrug, "I've seen smaller," she said coolly but with a wicked twinkle in her eyes.

A moment passed before a smile spread across his face and they both began to laugh. "I like you," he pointed in her direction and smiled fondly before taking a seat on the cold stone floor. Jacquelyn felt at ease but still sat a little ways away from him. "So where are we?" She asked after another moment passed with nothing but the low whistle of the winter wind to occupy the silence.

"You and I are prisoners of the Eyrie." He explained with a sigh. "We're in the sky cells where we will remain until we go mad and confess or we jump," he pointed over to the ledge running along the south side of the prison. Jacquelyn's eyes, now adjusted to the night sky, saw the large mountain peaks that painted the night sky – it would be a very long way down indeed. "How is it that you manage to anger the most powerful knight within 100 miles, and yet you have no idea where you are?" Tyrion chuckled to himself looking over at her.

She feigned a smiled and stared down at her boots, "you heard about that?" she asked trying, and failing, not to sound too pleased with herself.

"How could I not?" he asked, "Everyone was raving about the crazed girl found in the woods. The hunter's companion, claiming to be a hunter, who called Ser Vardis Egan a chauvinistic pig. Well done by the way," he nodded his head in approval at her insult. "It was very hard to not hear about you, miss-"

"Meryck. Jacquelyn Meryck. Call me Jacquelyn, please." She introduced herself quickly; appalled by the fact she hadn't done so earlier. Sister Benedictine would have had a conniption is she knew that Jacquelyn had forgotten her manners in the presence of a Lord. " I am a hunter. That bow and quiver are mine, along with other things that they confiscated."

A pang of fear grabbed hold of her heart. What had happened to her bag, and the rest of her belongings? There was no way the would have let her have them in her cell unless they intended to have her and the dwarf fight to the death with them – which seemed unlikely. Then again she could very well be in a age where bear baiting was still an appropriate form of entertainment. She shuddered as she remembered the three weeks she spent as a maid at the court of Elizabeth I.

"I have no doubt," Tyrion replied, but his voice showed no signs of sarcasm, " you have the strength and the stature to be an archer," he smiled fondly. There was something infectious about his smile because despite her fears about what the morning would hold for her, Jacquelyn found herself smiling along with the dwarf.

"What about you?" she mused, " What did you do to earn yourself a room in the Eyrie's luxury Inn?" She asked looking over at him.

Tyrion sighed and looked out at the mountain peaks, his black eye burning with a fiery hatred for the man or woman responsible for his incarceration, but his green eye hinted that there was an understanding of their logic, no matter how misguided it may be. " I am accused of sending an assassin to kill the son of Lady Catelyn Stark, she is Lady Tully's older sister. And I am accused of the murder of Lady Tully's late husband, Jon Arryn."

"Give me your hand," Jacquelyn ordered scooting closer to him.

Tyrion looked bewildered at her and initially held his hands as far away as his arms could manage, " why?" he asked skeptically – he appeared to be even less trusting that Jacquelyn, as if that was possible.

"Trust me," she said in a soothing voice. She did not blame him for being skeptical, it was a rather odd request coming from a woman that others had deemed crazy.

Hesitantly he placed his hand in her outstretched palm. She was surprised. In the dim light his hand had seemed so rough and calloused, but the skin was actually quite soft and smooth like the pages of the old manuscripts Lord Tyrion used to keep himself company late at night that is when he was not using something or someone else to keep him company. Her fingers ran along the inside of his palm, running up and down each one of his fingers and back again to the centre of his palm before closing his fingers with hers. After a few moments of silence passed between them neither one of them moving or speaking, the only sound that could be heard was the winter wind rustling some of the branches in the distance when suddenly she looked up at him.

"You didn't do it," she said in a calm, almost trance like, state.

"How do you know that?" he raised one bushy eyebrow at her before staring down at his palm still in her hands.

"You'd be amazed at the things you can learn about a person from a single touch," she said softly and returned to her spot a few feet away from him.

Tyrion blinked at her, unsure about how she could know something like that about him from a single touch.

Father Malcolm had taught her that shadow walkers had a dual consciousness that allowed them to both be active in the shadow world, but still be aware of what was happening in the world around them as well. Every human was capable of the dual consciousness, but so far only shadow walkers had been able to access that part of their brain – something to do with their ability to walk through time had gained them access to a secret part of the brain that allowed them to take part in two worlds.

At first it was hard to control whose memories she absorbed, it got to the point where she was afraid to touch anyone in fear of absorbing their memories, but Father Malcolm showed her that memory walking was like cleaning out files on a computer. The ones that really stuck out or you visited often were stored and organized elsewhere, and the others, or the 'junk files' as he called them, could be deleted.

Deleting a memory wasn't easy, and it took a long time, but it was possible. She had yet been able to do it – but lord almighty was she trying. It took a many years of practice and a great deal of patience but after enough training she was able to shake hands with a member of the congregation and not know that when he was 14 years-old he accidentally ran over his neighbors cat with his parents car that he borrowed without permission and then blamed on his older sister to get back at her for shrinking his favourite football jersey.

It wasn't a skill that Jacquelyn particularly liked, because who wanted to know all of the private details of everyone's life, but in instances like this, when there was a specific memory she was looking for – one that could determine whether or not an innocent man died or a guilty man walk free –then her little ability had its uses.

"You're right," he said quietly. "I had nothing to do with the boy's fall, or the attempt on his life-"

"But you think that one of your family members might be responsible?" Jacquelyn finished for him.

Tyrion looked over at her, "clever girl," he mused. " Yes, I do think it was Jaime or Cersei, but there is something about it that bothers me," he admitted. He paused, half expecting Jacquelyn to already know his thoughts and come out with the answer. When she said nothing he continued, " it's just that it was too sloppy to be either of them. I know my brother, and my sister, and while they may be foolish at times, one thing they have never been is sloppy. And to use a dagger that could be linked back to our family, and me in particular, no. Jaime would have never been so careless nor would he have allowed Cersei to be so cruel."

He began muttering to himself, listing the possible theories about his sister, and his father.

Jacquelyn sighed and looked out to the mountains. Even if she was being held captive against her will on crimes she had not committed she had to admit that this was a beautiful land. Then again anywhere that was unpolluted by the foulness of the industrial revolution was beautiful in her eyes. It was perhaps one of the few aspects she liked about being a shadow walker – it gave her the chance to experience the world untouched with the stain of modernity. In this world the sun shone a little brighter, the air was cleaner, and everything smelled so much crisper.

She went to lean against the wall behind her but sharp pains radiating from the back of her head prevented her from doing so. She grimaced at the surge of pain and gently rubbed the back of her head with her poor swollen and bloody wrists.

"You're injured," Tyrion noticed, gently reaching out for her wrists to examine her injuries, "fetch the guard – we need to bandage them before they become infected in this festering hole." He looked back towards the door and tried to summon the jailor.

"They will heal," she assured resting one of her injured hands on his shoulder to silence his cries for help. "Besides – no one will come. To them we are the enemy and unworthy of medical attention." She gave a melancholic sigh and looked out on to the valley.

He changed the topic; "I would not want to be on the receiving end of your rage when you are freed." Jacquelyn looked back at him with a quizzical eye at this seemingly random outburst.

"And why is that my Lord?" She asked gently tracing the rope burns along her left wrist. "What makes you think I am any more dangerous than your average tavern wench?"

"First of all," he looked over at her with scrupulous eyes, "you are no tavern wench." Jacquelyn hadn't been able to tell if that was a good thing or not before he continued.

"Secondly, the calluses on your hand suggest that you've been an archer most of your life; the fact that you are more worried about the injuries to your wrists, judging by the way you keep touching them, than you about to the ones to your face suggest that your skills as an archer are more important to you than your looks which are quite stunning. The scars on your hand suggest that you have a history of hand to hand combat as well." He gave her a smug smile, oh yes; he was very pleased with himself and his observations.

"Very good," she nodded her approval of his assessment. "I've been an archer since I was five. Back home they called me the hawk." She smiled to herself thinking about the church and her old nickname.

"The hawk?" he asked, " why is that?"

"I never miss." She said point blank. Tyrion looked up at her with disbelief in his eyes it was impossible to _never_ miss.

"And because in my culture the hawk is a symbol of protection, and mental agility- I was the defender." She added quickly.

Tyrion nodded as he took in this information. "You also have a strange marking on your right forearm," he pointed at her, " on the inside. I noticed it when they brought you here –your sleeve lifted up as it dragged across the ground." He quickly added to cover his tracks so she wouldn't think he had been touching her as she lay unconscious in the cell with him.

She rolled up her sleeve, but she already knew what he was talking about. He was speaking about her tattoo. 'Eyes open' with the Celtic arrow knot, both a symbol of the archer and of brotherhood amongst her people. The saying had applied to her as not only an archer but also as a shadow walker. As a shadow walker she had to be on alert at all times to not draw attention to herself and do something that could alter the fabric of time – like assassinate Hitler. Not that it had crossed her mind when she jumped to 1928 Munich, not at all.

"You mean my tattoo?" she asked already knowing the answer. Judging by the way everyone she had come across was dressed, she was willing to bet that she was in a medieval period, and the only people who had tattoo's here would be deemed savages, like Picts and other tribal people. One of the reasons why Jacquelyn had it placed on her forearm was because she was what her kind called a medievalist. Meaning that while she jumped to other time periods in history as well- she mainly jumped back to somewhere in the medieval period. She had an extensive knowledge of the way they dressed, and there was seldom a reason for her to expose her forearms – in fact it was almost considered immoral for her to do so.

"Is that what that's called?" Tyrion said the word softly to himself a couple more times. It was as foreign to his ears as its concept and required repeating several times in order for the word and the concept to stick in his memory. " You also have several rings," he shuddered a little at the sight of them, "that puncture your ear."

Absentmindedly Jacquelyn reached up to her ears and felt her piercings – she did have a few. There were three in each lobe, her rook on her left ear, and her forward helix and daith on her right ear. She actually got into numerous fights with Father Malcolm about her piercings and tattoo. He simply worried that they could blow her cover during a jump, but in the end he always conceded; because deep down he knew why she had gotten them, he knew that they had been her way to feel something, anything, again. Who was he to argue with that?

"You know better than most that the world is a cold, and cruel place," she said softly, " and these piercings serve as a reminder that try as I may, I am not entirely numb, everyone feels pain but I am stronger than the pain ."

Tyrion understood. He understood the cruelty of the world, constantly being underestimated because there was something that made him different. He had chosen to wear it like a suit of armor so no one could use his size against him, but Mistress Meryck had chosen physical reminders of her pain to show off her strength, and for that, he admired her.

"I suppose I shall stand before Lady Tully in the morning." She said softly, more so to herself than to him, but seeing as he was the only one there he felt obliged to answer.

"I suppose you shall," he agreed not envying her. It was plain to anyone who had seen Lysa Tully that she had gone mad, and incapable rational thought or making fair judgments. It was evident that she would be found guilty – simply because if there was any indication otherwise – Jacquelyn would not have been thrown into the sky cell. A beautiful woman like Mistress Meryck stood no chance of escaping the moon door and the thought of losing some one as sharp, and interesting as her made him miserable. There was a shortage of intelligent women in the Westeros - even fewer who were accomplished hunters or archers.

"Do you sing Mistress Meryck?" Tyrion asked in hopes to brighten his mood perchance. He had forgotten how long it had been since he'd heard a woman's voice sing him a song. It was a sound he desperately craved.

"I do," she said softly, "mostly the songs of my people – the only problem is most people don't know or language and don't understand our songs." She sighed. She could have just sung any old song and it would have pleased him, but the trouble with most contemporary songs was that they only made sense in the 21st century; whereas the shadow songs were timeless. Besides, something deep inside of her needed something familiar; something comforting – jumping always made her feel homesick and clinging to that little bit of home always helped her cope.

Something had changed in her demeanor, but what it was exactly, Tyrion couldn't quite put his finger on.

"That's quite alright by me," he encouraged her, "Unlike most, I rather enjoy listening to foreign tongues, it helps expand my vocabulary when hurling insults."

Against her better judgment Jacquelyn chuckled, " you know m'lord, if these were different circumstances, I do not think I would like you very much."

"Oh I know you wouldn't," Tyrion agreed. He was very well aware of how he came off around others, and part of him liked it. He held a certain fear over people; simpletons afraid of becoming victim of his razor wit and sharp tongue. "But given that these are the circumstances, it would appear as if the Gods desire us to meet under favorable circumstances." He noted.

Jacquelyn nodded sideways in agreement, " So it would appear."

"So, how about a song." He asked again.

Reluctantly Jacquelyn agreed. There was no point in arguing with Tyrion Lannister when his mind was made up, that much was obvious. "There is one song," she said slowly, "but it's not a happy song." She warned him.

"These are not exactly what I consider to be happy times," Lord Tyrion reasoned.

Jacquelyn smiled sadly to herself before clearing her throat. It had been a long time since she had sung in front of an audience but she did her best.

She sang to him 'the song of exile', it was the song Father Malcolm always sang to her when she was growing up in the cathedral.

When she had finished she drew her knees up close to her chest to keep herself from shaking. She wished she hadn't chosen such a personal song, but there was a longing for home that dwelt deep within her heart. She longed for something she had never really known. It wasn't like she could call 2012 home, she was always jumping away from it, further and further back in time. She thought she had found home once, for a brief time of pure happiness but like everything else in life it could not last. That was the curse of the shadow walkers - constantly searching for a place to belong, a 'home' to end their exile in time.

"That was lovely," Tyrion commented.

" Thank you." She mumbled a quick, 'welcome' and stared off into the dark black yonder. "You know, if we ever get out of here, you would do very well for yourself singing at my sister, the Queen's, court."

She knew his offer had been made out genuine kindness but the idea of being at court made her feel ill. " I appreciate your offer m'lord, but I am not cut out for the life at court. I am made to be out in the forests, hunting, and gathering; not in a court singing and dancing in some high tower as some foppish fool of a knight attempts to woo me with the tongue of ancient poets because he lacks the originality to create his own verse. There is an more beauty in a single forest more than can be found in a hundred courts."

I have to admit, that language is not familiar to my ears – what region is that from?" he wondered, ignoring her comments about the court and cutting back to the song.

She said nothing at first. How do you explain where you're from when you don't know where you are? After another painful moment of tense silence she whispered quietly, " a village far beyond the Northern Sea."

Tyrion made no comment at first but thought about her answer carefully, " well you do look like a northerner."

Jacquelyn sighed with relief – she was in the clear.

"But I've never heard of the Northern Sea," Tyrion mused after another moment of contemplation.

Her shoulders sagged, 'so close!' she thought to herself before trying to come with something quickly on her feet.

" I imagine this 'Northern Sea' would be past the wall then, wouldn't it?" He asked curiously.

"Yes," she agreed, quickly thinking she added, " we call it the Northern Sea on our side, but it is where the Narrow Sea meets the most northern part of the Westeros." She had heard a knight mention the Narrow sea earlier and thought he had mean the Northern Sea.

Tyrion was fascinated by Jacquelyn's stories of home and demanded more and more of them. She had fled her homeland when marauders invaded her village, pillaging and destroying everything in their wake. Her entire village was destroyed in the chaos, along with her family. Being the clever girl she was, she hid on a merchant ship and came to the Westeros. With no money and very little material wealth she moved out from the towns and made her way for the woods where she could hunt and provide for herself before Lysa Tully's men captured her.

"You've had quite the adventure," Tyrion commented once she finished telling him her tale.

"You have no idea," She said in disbelieving the lies coming out of her mouth. It wasn't to far from the story she usually told – ordinarily she'd say that she was from a small village that had been sacked by British or French or wherever her country was at war with, troops. This story took a lot more embellishing and vague details to try and make it fit with the lay of the lands.

"So tell me Lady Jacquelyn," Tyrion began after taking in her accounts, " do all the women in your village look like you?"

Jacquelyn thought long and hard about all of the female shadow walkers she had encountered. "No, actually." She replied, surprised by her own answer. She had never really thought of it before but she looked nothing like the other female shadow walkers she had ever met. She had seen a few men with similar features as her, but never any women. They had all been fair-haired with either green or brown eyes, and short with delicate frames. " I would appear to be an anomaly." She said quietly.

'How odd?' She thought to herself, that she should be one of the few shadow walkers to actually resemble a shadow with her tall stature, dark, wispy curls and her soft pale grey eyes. She didn't look it, but she was also rather muscular for a woman, thanks to years of archery, and combat lessons with Father Malcolm. The others were the Scarlet Johansson's or Amy Adams' to her Keira Knightley – they were all stunningly beautiful, that was trademark of the shadow walkers it was just that they looked nothing like her. She smiled remembering how several of the children at St. David's came up to her after their monthly movie night, telling her about how much she looked like Guinevere from that night's 'King Arthur' with Clive Owen and Keira Knightley. (Some of the Sisters at the church thought the movie was to violent or to gory for children to be watching, with which Father Malcolm quietly replied that many of the children would experience far worse in their lives as shadow walkers than a little bit of fake blood on a movie screen.)

That was another thing she liked about Father Malcolm, he never hid anything from you. He was perfectly aware that violence was a normal part of a shadow walker's life; he himself had fought along side William Wallace at the battle for Sterling Bridge, which made watching him grimace while watching _Braveheart_ all the more hilarious. She thought about her own life and how it had been marked with violence. She was not proud of what she had done in order to stay alive but she did what she had to do in order to survive and if that meant using her skills as an archer to be an assassin then so be it. When she took her first life she vowed that she would find a way to atone for it, that was three years ago, and she was still searching.

Tyrion chuckled at how surprised Jacquelyn was by her little revelation, oblivious to the stern look of contemplation now marking her features. "And I suppose none of them dress in the same curious manner as you as well?" He observed tilting his head in her direction.

She snapped out of her daze and looked down at her clothes. She had to admit that she was dressed oddly for the time, in her hand made brown leather boots, tight tan pants, dark green cable knit sweater with brown leather jacket, cream continuous scarf and green fingerless gloves. She didn't look like a woman – she looked like a slightly feminized Robin Hood.

They continued to talk through out the night about various things, and realized that they had led very similar lives.

They understood the anger and the frustration of constantly being underestimated, living on the edges of society. They shared stories of their homes, and families. He told her of his older siblings, the twins, and of his father's contempt for him for causing the death of his mother and for his dwarfism. Out of his entire family he was only close to his brother; Jaime or 'The King Slayer' as he was also known as in the Seven Kingdoms for his role in the death of the 'mad king' years ago. She listened eagerly as he spoke but never saying a word about her own life. She had said enough before about the Northern Sea and didn't want to further risk anything by saying anything else.

It was in the early hours of the morning when she told him, while looking out to the east as the sun began to peak up over the hills and the once black night sky began to turn a purplish blue "I'll find a way, you know."

"Find a way to what?" he asked sleepily. It was the first time a woman had kept him up all night without sleeping with him. Surprisingly, he found his conversations with Lady Jacquelyn Meryck to be just as enjoyable.

"To get us out of here – alive." She explained.

"I'm sure you will," he said the very effort to keep his eyes open was exhausting. He had no idea why she wasn't more tired given the last few days she'd had. Then again being knocked unconscious for several hours probably meant you weren't exactly sleep deprived, but this was not a theory he wished to try for himself. Unless, of course, he were to perhaps knock himself out against a head board after a particularly rowdy night in the company of a fine, promiscuous, young woman- then it might be a worthwhile experiment.

"Lord Tyrion?" She yawned.

"Yes?" he responded feeling even sleepier than before.

"I'm going to sleep. Try anything and I will have no qualms about throwing you off the edge," she said in a voice that was so calm and serene that the threat sounded like something you could say to a lover.

Tyrion chuckled and responded, "you have nothing to fear my lady. You are not my type."

Jacquelyn smiled at the comment. How proud must he be to say that, rather than hearing it? Shrugging off her fur lined cloak, to use as a make shift pillow, she rolled onto her side and tried to get an hour or two of sleep before the guards came to take her before their lady.

Jacquelyn swore she had only just closed her eyes when the guards came for her. She noticed Tyrion stood as far out of their way as possible out fear of being accidentally bumped over the edge of the cell. He looked up at her with sad eyes – he already knew she wasn't going to be coming back to their cell.

"Cheer up," she whispered softly. "I'll find a way," she promised. "Whatever you do, do not lose hope." She urged him giving him a warm, reassuring, smile, as the guards led her out of the cell.

It was strange. He had known her for less than a day but he already felt a profound loss as he watched her walk away with the guards close behind her. She was clever, interesting, and given half the chance to prove herself, probably the most deadly woman he had ever met. "If anyone could find a way of escaping from here, it would have been you." He whispered softly so only the wind could hear his final words before the idiot of a guard began to beat him with his rubber dummy yelling, "back, back little man!"


	3. Chapter 3

The guards escorted Jacquelyn through the maze of dim stone-walls before bringing her into a room lit only by the torches placed high up on the sconces of the thick marble walls, near the narrow arches of the windows. On the one side there was a large platform where a woman with long auburn hair and blue eyes sat breast-feeding what looked like a six year-old boy. Jacquelyn wanted to throw up on the spot at the sight of it, she was of the firm belief that if you could ask for it, then you were too old for it. The years of her life lined the woman's face, and the early hints of madness twinkled behind her azure eyes.

Looking to the right of the woman, who she guessed was Lady Lysa Tully, stood another woman with the same blue eyes and auburn hair. They looked so similar to one another and yet so different. According to Tyrion, Lysa was the younger of the two, but looking up at her now she looked about a hundred years older compared to the radiating beauty of her sister.

Looking around the room with its blue veined white marble and austere features Jacquelyn felt a sense of impending doom. Still looking around, she quickly noticed a large wooden door (Tyrion had explained to her that the door, was made of weirwood – a type of tree that grew all over the Westeros and was known for its blood red leaves and stone white bark) on the floor with a moon painted on it. Her stomach began to summersault just thinking about what could be on the other side of that door and she was quickly reminded that she had not eaten dinner last night, nor breakfast this morning as the hunger gnawed on her empty stomach. Continuing her survey of the room, she noted that several knights, probably the ones who kidnapped her yesterday, were present including the one who had slapped her. She wondered if he noticed what should have been a large angry welt on her face was nothing more than a shallow shadow of a bruise. Rapid healing was one of the few perks of being part shadow. Even the rope burns on her wrists, which had almost cut down to the bone last night, were nearly healed.

After a moment, Lysa spoke silencing the murmurs coming from the gaggle of knights in the corner along with the members of the court who had turned out to watch the sordid affair. She turned her mad, azure eyes towards Jacquelyn and spoke. "Jaskellan Merrysck you have been charged with-"  
"It's Jacquelyn Meryck, actually." She corrected her, immediately regretting her decision. Lesson 145 of being a time traveler: never interrupt a monarch during your hearing – it will almost never end well, and almost never really meant never.

"How dare you interrupt me when I am speaking," Lysa hissed at her, spittle flying.

"What can you do to me?" Jacquelyn questioned – she was pretty sure she was already screwed, might as well make it entertaining for her audience. After all, she would hate to disappoint the charming knights who had brought her here and shown her such wonderful Eyrie hospitality. "It's plain to see from your faces that you have already found me guilty of some imagined crime. My choices are either going to be death, or torture until I give you false information and then death. So if I'm going to die, I would like you to at least pronounce my name correctly." She felt brazened with her words but from the way she saw it, there was no point in sniveling or begging for mercy from a mad woman. And Lysa Tully was a mad woman because, honestly, if you're breastfeeding your six year old, you're not exactly sane.

Lysa's face grew hot, enraged that she had been spoken to in such an appalling manner, in her own hall, by an outsider. "You will name the hunter who you accompany, or you will pay for his crimes!" she shouted while trying, and failing, to maintain her dignity.

"I have already told your knights that I have no companion." Jacquelyn answered trying not to sound half as frustrated as she felt. "That bow and quiver belong to me and me alone. I'm telling the truth when I say I have not lived outside of your laws. I have caused neither death nor harm to any man or beast." She explained rationally and calmly looking not at Lysa but at her sister. Perhaps if she could get Catelyn on her side Catelyn could convince her deranged sister to let release Jacquelyn. It was a long shot, but right now it was the only shot she had.

"Then why was your arrow found in one of our rabbits?" Lysa's eye gleamed with a terrifying sense of excitement as she held up one of Jacquelyn's arrows soaked in blood, dripping onto the cobble stone floor.

Jacquelyn's heart froze when she saw the arrow, it was hers she recognized the markings around the end of the shaft, and knew immediately she was being framed – but there was no way she was getting out of this, not with that crazed look on Lysa's face. Still she took a deep breath and thought things through rationally there had to be an explanation for the blood there just had to be. She was clearly being framed but how could she prove it? The constant whispers of the court along with constant drip, drip, drip, of fresh blood dripping onto the stone floor was grating on her frayed nerves, as she tried to think of why fresh blood would be….'wait a second' she thought.

"Fresh Blood!" She said excitedly under her breath and jerking her head up to look Lysa in the eye.  
"My quiver had 12 hand made arrows in them yesterday when it was confiscated by your knight's. If there are any missing now it is only because your knights have used them to frame me." She looked towards the knight who had slapped her, but he avoided her gaze. If she had to put money on it, she'd bet he had been the one who killed the rabbit, thus signing her death warrant. He was still furious that the likes of her, a woman, had dared to insult him and his knightly honour, so he took it upon himself to exact the ultimate revenge.

Lysa looked over at the knight and asked if the girl spoke the truth.

The knight cleared his throat and looked solely at Lysa as he spoke. "We found the woman yesterday in the snow surrounded by all the belongings of a hunter. She denied her hunter status. Upon further inspection we discovered an arrow missing from her quiver. The woman turned mad and violently attacked one of our men for which we had to subdue her. After she was secured to the back of my horse we traveled not fifty feet before we found the blood stained snow of a dead rabbit with that arrow sticking through it."

Lysa shifted on her throne and glared down at Jacquelyn, who was fuming. It took all of her self-control, and then some, not to cry out at the knight's blatant lies. How she would have loved to walk up to him and wipe that smug smile off of his aging face. Who ever said that knights were brave and chivalrous was full of it, she knew better!

This was not the first time a knight had acted outside of the conduct of chivalry with her. The only difference was last time she got to slit his throat in the end.  
"M'lady," Jacquelyn spoke up serenely, " If I may interject – there is just one flaw in your knight's story." She tried to keep her voice calm and steady, but venom frothed in her mouth as the word 'Knight' rolled off her tongue.

"I have heard all the evidence I need!" Lysa declared loudly from the seat of her throne.  
Jacquelyn took a deep breath and tried again to regain her composure before continuing, there was no way in hell she was going to give up that easily, not when her very life was on the line, not when she knew Tyrion was depending on her as well. " But m'lady you are over looking one very significant detail!" Jacquelyn cried out.

"What detail would that be?" Lysa asked doubtfully, stroking her frail son's dark hair as he sat next to her nuzzling her still exposed bosom.

"If that arrow was shot two days ago, or even a day ago and killed anything – then why is the blood still dripping?" Jacquelyn asked.

The room erupted once again with whispers madly flying about and the men and ladies of the hall looked over to their sovereign, craning their necks to see the bloody arrow in question. This was a turn that they had not expected in what had quickly escalated from a confession to a trial, with the defendant representing herself against their ruler.

"If I had in fact shot and killed a rabbit even only 12 hours ago – the blood would have coagulated by now, it would not be that rich scarlet colour you see now but a brownish rust colour." She paused momentarily to allow this piece of news to sink in to everyone's minds before continuing on with her defense. "Therefore based on the freshness of the blood – that arrow could not have been shot more than three hours ago; where as you know I was securely locked in the sky cell and could not have fired the arrow that killed your rabbit."

All eyes were on Lysa Tully and her knight, who identified himself as Ser Vardis Egan and shifted uncomfortably where he stood. His face showed no trace of fear of being discovered as a liar, but there was panic in his eyes – a panic that only she saw but still yielding no satisfaction.

Lysa continued to deliver the verdict, choosing to simply ignore Jacquelyn's defense. " You have two choices." She announced, giddy as a child in a toyshop. "Confess the name of your companion and live the rest of your days in the sky cells, or take responsibility for your actions and walk through the moon door." A grim smile spread across her gaunt face as two men began to turn the wheel at the edge of the great hall and the wooden door with the moon on it disappeared. The door, as it turned out, was a cover for a massive pit that led to a steep drop down the mountain and to her certain death.

Jacquelyn stepped forward towards the pit and looked down as the wind whipped here hair back and forth before looking up at Lysa and the 'council.'  
Her heart was racing, thumping so loudly in her chest that she was surprised that no one else could hear it.

The choice was clear for her, although it might not be the obvious choice for most people. She fought for her life because going through the door would surely mean her death and yet she felt something stirring in her fingers. It was the same electric charge she felt every time she was about to jump but it was different at the same time.

With no other choice but to put all of her faith in the new courage that stemmed from this strange new electricity that now flowed through her veins, she said loudly enough for all to hear, "I'll take the door, if you don't mind." Giving Lysa a cheeky wink as she spoke.

There were many shocked gasps stirring amongst the audience that had gathered, even the knight with his fake testimony seemed to be surprised by her choice.  
"All I ask is that if I am to die, that I die with my braces. They were a gift, made for me by my brothers. They are no longer with me and I wish to honour their memory by wearing them to my death."

Lysa thought for a moment before declaring that her son shall decide. Jacquelyn looked at the sickly young boy, who suffered from the same madness as his mother. He began to tremble with excitement before yelling "no! Now make the lady fly mumma, make her fly!"

Catelyn quickly leaned over and whispered hastily in her sister's ear looking over at Jacquelyn from time to time as she spoke.  
"Very well," Lysa agreed. " Fetch her bag!" She ordered.

The bag was shoved into Jacquelyn's hands. She quickly reached in to grab her braces quietly slipping one or two other things out with them. She worked the leather straps on quickly under her shirtsleeves before making her way to the giant pit. She stepped towards the ledge and looked back up at Lysa, increasingly aware that the lying knight had made his way behind her, ready to push her down at his sovereigns command.  
"Any last words?" Lysa asked with a smug smile on her wicked old face, she had beaten the young woman standing before her, she had won. Jacquelyn looked up to the sky, digging out the small golden crucifix she kept hidden under her shirt. With steady hands she whispered a quick prayer; "In the name of the father, the son and the holy-spirit, I commit my soul to thee." She kissed the crucifix and looked at Lysa and Catelyn.

Catelyn looked at the young girl, about to be pushed to her death with sad eyes. The girl was scarcely older than twenty, she was around, her eldest son, Robb's age. Where was her mother? Did this girl even have a mother worrying about her at home somewhere? Where did this girl call home? She wished that this had not been the way this girl's life would end. She was beautiful with mysterious grayish blue eyes that reminded her of her husband, youngest daughter, and as much as she hated to admit it, but she also reminded her of her husband's bastard son; the one she had been forced to accept into their home. But looking at the girl she forgot about the humiliation of being forced to accept the symbol of her husband's unfaithfulness, as it became friends with Eddard' true children; because all she felt looking at this girl was remorse. She didn't know why, but she felt that if the girl had been given the chance to live, a free life, she would have been destined for greatness. Instead Catelyn focused her attentions to the girl standing on the edge of the moon door, she deserved to die after a long happy life with many children gathered around her deathbed not this; but these were the laws in her sister's lands. She had no power here.

Jacquelyn gave them a knowing smile, as though she knew some great secret that were not privy to, " I promise you this: you have not seen the last of me." She turned around ready to jump, but then quickly turned back to the thrones, "be careful with that" She motioned towards the leather bag. "I'll be needing that when I come back."

'The girl has spirit' Catelyn thought to herself, and how she reminded her of Eddard's poor dead sister Lyanna, and even their daughter Arya.  
Lysa leaned foreward, about to say something, most likely some rebuttal to Lady Jacquelyn's final words, but before any word could be spoken the girl leapt gracefully down 600 feet to the valley below.

And that was the end of it.

Jacquelyn Meryck had jumped through the moon door to her death; welcoming it as one would an old friend.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been impossible for Lord Tyrion not to hear about Jacquelyn's death, for it was all anyone who walked the halls of the sky cells spoke of. He strained his ears to catch any snippets of news he could about the strange girl who took her own life. His heart fell when he heard that she had chosen death over life – true it would have been a life in prison, but at least it was life. If he had escaped he was sure he could have found a way to get Jaime to free the girl. It would not have been difficult, on the contrary – it would have been a simple feat. All he would have needed to do is tell his brother the depths of this girl's beauty, which formed only a shallow representation of her character.

He would also describe the music that was her laughter, or the charm in her smile and Jaime would have charged in with an army to rescue her.

She was by far one of the most exotic and stunning women he had ever met, but he did not have the slightest desire to bed the girl. Maybe it was the deadly glint in her eyes that had made her so attractive, but that didn't seem to be it.

She looked like any other young woman her age, thick raven black hair with grayish ice blue eyes, and skin the colour of fresh cream, but there was something more to her.

Days had gone by since the news of Jacquelyn Meryck's death had reached his ears, and he had finished mourning the death of the girl he barely knew. This was a time of action. Her refused to allow Lysa Tully and her sister to destroy him as easily as they had Lady Jacquelyn.

It was time to do something, and after a few days of exploring every possible prospect Tyrion Lannister had a plan. He called the guard, the one who loved to hit him with the rubber dummy so much, and told him that he was ready to confess his crimes.

The fool of a guard dragged him by the scruff of his neck down the long, poorly lit stonewalls that formed the corridors outside of the sky cells. Once they reached the end of the long hallway they made the long journey from the dungeons up to the High Hall. The time of day was unknown to Lord Tyrion as he entered the somber white marble hall and he did not care. All he could think about in that moment was getting himself out of the Eyrie by nightfall one way or another. He descended the long curved, marble staircase and stood in the centre of the hall waiting for Lady Tully and Lady Stark to arrive.

His eyes instinctively shifted over to the moon door. Tyrion shuddered at the thought of what would happen if his plan foundered. His breathing was quick and his heart raced with fear and adrenaline as the thought of going through the door coursed involuntarily through his mind.

The High Hall quickly filled with knights and other members of the hall all of whom were eager to watch the dwarf's confession and subsequent execution. He could not blame them for their interest, he came from a large and powerful family that had made many enemies over the years; the thought of a Lannister being executed at the hands of the Tully's would be simply too delicious to pass up seeing.

However he had a plan that would prevent any of this from happening; he might not blame them for being interested in his death but that did not mean that it had to be today.

His plan was simple – he would confess to the insignificant crimes he had committed throughout his life, and then when Lady Tully tired of his nonsense he would further deny the allegations against him and demand the king's law be granted to him. He had been held without trial and it was his gods given right to be tried properly before the courts. If that were to fail then he would simply call for a trial by combat and have his brother, the King Slayer come forth on his behalf – no man had ever defeated the King Slayer in battle.

Catelyn looked down, from her place at Lysa's side, with loathing and contempt for the man who now stood before them now willing to confess his crimes. Now was the hour in which her son would be avenged. She thought of young Bran lying sick in his bed, paralyzed from the waist down; the rage coursing through her body forced her to clench her fists, digging her nails deep into the skin, to keep herself from screaming in the agony she felt on her sons behalf.

Never again would he feel the dirt beneath his feet, or climb on the stony walls of Winterfell. All of his pain had been the fault of this odious man who now stood before them, seeking a mercy he would never receive.

Bile rose up from her stomach as she thought about how only months ago she had welcomed this little man into her house as an honoured guest, and how had he shown his gratitude? By throwing her son off the South tower, and then hiring an assassin to finish the job that the fall should have done. When this was all over, when Tyrion Lannister was good and dead, then she would be able to return home and care for Bran again as a mother should care for her child.

Her thoughts of hate and rage were silenced as her sister rose and addressed her prisoner. Once she finished addressing the imp Lysa leaned over and whispered quickly to her sister, " the sky cell always breaks them."

And it was true. Catelyn thought of Lord Tyrion finally coming forward to confess to the crimes he was guilty of – perhaps his conscious finally broke in the loneliness of the cold harsh cell. Her mind wandered over to the girl, the one who had once stood where Tyrion now stood, arguing for her life. She had chosen death over spending the rest of her years in the sky cells. She wished there could have been more she could have done for the girl but the laws of the Vale stood and she had been found guilty of the crime of hunting – even if she was falsely tried.

Tyrion's list of confessions began to grow long and vulgar with each one he made and yet he refused to acknowledge his role in the death of Jon Arryn and his attempted murder of Bran. Lysa stopped him and demanded he explain his actions. When he admitted that he was confessing his crimes, Catelyn found herself no longer able to control her tongue.

"Lord Tyrion, you are here for the murder of Jon Arryn and for trying, and failing, to kill my son, Brann."

The imp's face softened and shrugged his small hunched shoulders, " but m'lady, I know nothing of those crimes."

'Lies!' She wanted to shout. She knew he was lying. She had evidence of his guilt. The knife used to try and kill Bran, the one that was now in her possession, had once belonged to Tyrion Lannister.

Then and there Tyrion demanded he be granted the king's law. Citing that he had been kept without trial and imprisoned without being convicted.

Graciously Lysa granted Tyrion his trial. She informed the dwarf that he would present his case to the judge, her son, and he would decide the imp's fate. Tyrion immediately rejected this proposition, realizing that the boy, no matter how much the imp tried to sweet talk him would find him guilty simply, " to see the little man fly."

"I demand a trial by combat then." He looked up at the sisters with defiance in his eyes. Catelyn soon realized that this had been his plan all along; the imp had something up his sleeve.

Lysa accepted his demand, reminding him that there was no executioner in the Eyrie except for the mood door, which she allowed to be opened again to intimidate the dwarf, causing he son to shake with excitement. Tyrion acknowledged what his fate was to be if he lost.

Lysa called for champions to present themselves. It was no surprise to Catelyn that many knights stepped forward to avenge the death of Jon Arryn. Lysa chose her most loyal and, in her mind, the most honorable amongst her knights – Ser Vardis Egan.

As Egan stepped forward, adjusting his armor he looked down at Tyrion. "M'lady, I fight to defend the laws of our land and to avenge your husband who I loved so much, but this man is only half my size. It would not seem right."

Tyrion gritted his teeth – he had been counting on the Knight to underestimate Tyrion. Which both irked him and reinforced the fact that while he may be greatly inferior physically, his ability to calculate other's choices before they've been made reminded him that his intelligence was superior to most.

Tyrion's plan had worked perfectly, except for one problem – Lysa refused to send for Jaime, insisting that the trial take place that very day. Now he stood alone with no one to stand and fight in his honour. Tyrion stood in the middle of the room helplessly looking around his eyes pleading someone, anyone, to stand and fight on his behalf.

Lysa seized upon the opportunity to point out what Tyrion already knew – no one was volunteering because there was no one there who believed he was innocent. Everyone there wanted t see him die; and for the first time that day, Tyrion realized that there was a chance her could die.

Then, as despair was about to take him with swift wings to his death, a voice rang out, clearer than any bell, from behind them all and called out, "I will fight for this man."

Murmurs began to buzz around the hall like bees around a field of wild flowers, men and women alike craning their necks trying to find where the mystery voice came from. Tyrion looked around, waiting for his victor to step forward but there was nothing.

Lysa rose from her seat on the throne, clenching the marble railing, and searched the crowd with shrewd eyes like a hunting falcon. How dare somebody at her hall volunteer on behalf of the imp.

Catelyn too was interested as to who would voluntarily challenge Ser Vardis to a battle; he was known for hundreds of miles for his military prowess as defender of the Eyrie. There was a movement in the shadows that caught her attention.

"I say," Lysa tried to command in a calm and regal manner, but her voice was too shrill with rage, pointing in the direction of the movement, " Come forward and show yourself."

Everyone immediately looked back into the shadows where their sovereign has just been pointing towards – but saw nothing.

A figure shrouded in a soft grey cloak from head to toe stirred from another part of the shadows, stepping forward with long graceful strides, and made their way to the centre of the room. The dancing shadows cast by the torchlight added to the air of mystery that surrounded the faceless volunteer as he stood before Lady Tully.

"Who are you?" Lysa screamed, shaking with anger that her plan to intimidate Tyrion was jeopardized by this faceless traitor.

"An old friend," the champion replied keeping his head low, but the voice was familiar to Tyrion but for the life of him he could not pick out here he had heard it before. " As I said, I will stand and fight for this man in a trial by combat."

Tyrion looked at his hooded champion and tried to recall where he may have met him, was he a friend of his family's – had his brother sent a fellow member of the Kings Guard to rescue him? That had to be it – Gods bless his brother! Maybe he would survive the day after all.

" I will not accept your bid to fight until you show yourself." Lysa demanded childishly causing Catelyn, intrigued by the situation, to roll her eyes at her sister.

It was not a wonder why Robert was as sickly and childish as her sister. Thank the Gods that none of her children ever behaved in such a manner – even Arya and Rickon knew how to behave in a court setting. Even the bastard Jon Snow knew to behave when the king and the royal family had come visit.

The figure bowed gracefully to Lysa and Catelyn, " if it would please your ladyships." A gloved hand reached up and slowly pulled the hood down from their head. Thick black curls fell below her shoulders and a familiar pair of piercing grey-blue eyes stared up at the sisters from where she stood. "My name is Jacquelyn Meryck and I will stand and fight for the life of Tyrion Lannister." Her voice was calm as she spoke as though nothing had happened.

The room erupted as everyone tried to get a good look at the faceless victor. It was impossible – there was no way anyone could have survived the fall. Never in thousands of years had anyone survived going through the mood door, and yet there she was.

Tyrion stared in disbelief as the very much alive Jacquelyn stood in the middle of the room, her face cold as stone. "Impossible," he whispered as he walked towards his champion.

"You died," Lysa whispered in fear and disbelief, " I saw it with my own eyes."

"You saw me jump," Jacquelyn said, her voice colder than ice. "I told you, you hadn't seen the last of me Lady Tully, and I always keep a promise."

The tension rising between Lysa and Jacquelyn was reaching dangerously high levels when Ser Vardis cut in by posing the question:

"M'lady, while I believe in defending you and honouring the name of Arryn by fighting on your behalf in this trial, am I to be expected to fight a woman?"

Jacquelyn looked back at him with daggers in her eyes but an unreadable expression on her face before shrugging, " why not, I'm expected to fight one." A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth as she taunted the knight. Tyrion bit back the laughter gurgling up in his throat. Some members of the hall had not been so polite.

Vardis looked around the hall, waiting for them all to quiet before studying the girl in front of him. He didn't know how she did it – how she tricked them all into thinking she died, but she would not be as fortunate if she were to engage him in battle. "Can you even lift a sword?" He asked as his servant delivered a sword for her use.

Jacquelyn walked over to the servant and looked at the old rusting sword that lay on the velvet pillow. Truth be told she did not know if she could lift a sword, even one as aged and decrepit as the one presented to her. She was still regaining her strength, but it was a slow process, and any physical exertion made would be severely dehabilitating to her recovery.

She grasped the hilt of the sword and tried to lift it off the red velvet pillow, but the weight was too much for her arm and with a jerk she dropped the sword and it fell to the floor loudly clanging against the stone.

Everyone in the hall laughed, while Tyrion's shoulder's slumped forward – he was doomed. The only person willing to fight on his behalf in the entire Vale couldn't even lift a stupid relic of a sword. He could see the writing on the wall, his death warrant was already signed, he should just jump now and save himself the humiliation and spare Jacquelyn her life.

Unshaken by her humiliating public display of momentary weakness Jacquelyn looked up and calmly said, " the last time I checked there was more than one way to kill a man." She gave Tyrion a reassuring smile, trying to cheer him up – 'have faith' she mouthed to him.

"May I perhaps be permitted to use my bow?" She asked looking up at both of the Tully sisters.

"What for?" asked Lysa, sitting on the edge of the throne as is if she were ready to spring forward at any moment like a coiled snake.

"What for?" Jacquelyn asked in disbelief shaking her head, " to hit him with." She remarked sarcastically. "Yes that is the way I plan to defeat your great champion." Her arms flailed as she spoke. "I'm going to hit him repeatedly with a wooden bow – that will do a lot of damage against an iron suit!" She pantomimed the actions of beating a man over the head repeatedly as she spoke, causing several members in the hall including Ser Vardis to laugh. "Do you even have a brain cell anymore, or has it all just turned to rot?" She inquired, half seriously.

She soon realized that her opinion had gotten the better of her yet again and it had potentially screwed her over – yet again – for which she quickly apologized.

Robert sat on his throne next to his mother capping his hands like a retarded seal one might find at the zoo – too much inbreeding- asking for his mother to make the funny lady yell again. Jacquelyn rolled her eyes and massaged the temples of her head all she could think about was how this day was not going as planned, and that she could go for a nice big drink right about now .

Naturally Lady Tully refused her offer – claimed it would make the match all the more entertaining to watch a weaponless girl fight against her greatest champion. Vardis walked towards his squire and drew his sword. Tyrion ran over to Jacquelyn as she stormed over to their corner.

"Do you have a plan?" He hissed into her ear as she crouched down to talk with him.

"Uh, yeah," She looked over at Ser Vardis as he swung his sword around in menacing rapid circles – the blade moving so fast there were times it was impossible to see, the only confirmation you had that there was in fact a blade present was the low whistling sound it made cutting the air and the occasional glimmer of metal.

"Great!" Tyrion exclaimed enthusiastically, relieved to hear that not all hope was lost, "what is it?"

"My plan is," she gulped un able to take her eyes off the spinning blade, "is not to die." She said quickly before Lady Tully called for the trial to begin and the champions had to meet in the centre of the hall.

Her son Robert leaned forward and yelled with as much air as his little lungs would allowed, "Fight!"

Ser Vardis secured his helmet and held his shield aloft as Jacquelyn stood waiting for she had nothing but the clothes she had worn the day she jumped. The knight charged at her quickly thrashing his sword about as she dodged each blow narrowly missing getting hit. She looked around the room anxiously trying to come up with some brilliant idea for victory when she felt the searing pain of the sword slash across her left arm.

Ser Vardis had hit her arm just above where she wore her brace. The wound stung and burned with the fire and rage of a thousand suns – this was no ordinary blade it had to have been tampered with something. However Jacquelyn could not afford to be distracted at the moment – she would have to wait to examine the wound after the battle was over.

Again the knight charged at her at full speed, tripping up the stair way as she jumped back.

Once Ser Vardis had regained his footing he lunged again and again. Jacquelyn counted on his armor weighing him down, thus giving her agility an advantage over the knight. As he picked up his sword once more and attempted to strike she leapt back off the banister managing to flip her body in the air so she faced forward as she landed.

"Never done that before," she beamed; impressed that she had actually pulled that off. The sound of Ser Vardis' blade hitting the marble banister brought her back to the current task at hand.

"Stand still and fight!" Lysa yelled down at her.

Without looking up at the crazy ass bitch Jacquelyn argued, "You are more than welcome to get off your damn ass and fight for yourself if you're bored! I'm a little busy at the moment."

That seemed to shut up Lysa Tully for a little while at least.

Their little exchange cost Jacquelyn valuable time and gave Ser Vardis enough time to free his blade and charge after to her again. She stood perfectly still, waiting until the last possible second before discarding her cloak and throwing it over his eyes.

Several "boo's" arose from the spectators, and there was one particular shout of delight that made Jacquelyn smile. She looked down at her bloodied arm and looked back at the knight. "Time to end this," She muttered to herself crouching low to the ground.

"What are you doing?" Tyrion hissed as he watched Ser Vardis fight to free himself from her cloak.

"Saving your life," she whispered back.

After a disorientated Ser Vardis freed himself from the confines of her cloak, shredding it with the blade of his sword, he lifted his sword to attack but stopped where he stood. A knife had embedded itself into his neck between the cracks where his armor met his helmet.

The room fell silent in horror as Jacquelyn stood still as a statue with another knife ready to send flying into the knight's flesh.

Had this strange girl just won the battle?

While the high hall erupted with chatter Ser Vardis continued to bleed out from his wound. Paralyzed by fear at what would happen if he tried to remove the knife himself he stood still, sword still firmly gripped in his hand, unsure of his next move. His crisp white tunic was soon stained with blood as the sharp pain from his throat brought him down to his knees. His attempted cried came out as nothing but gurgles of blood.

His sword dropped, causing a horrendous ringing sound to echo throughout the hall. Jacquelyn closed the distance between them, kicking away his sword. She came up to him and whispered, do you forgive me for what I must do in accordance to the laws of your land?" She asked sincerely. His was not the first life she had taken, and she doubted it would be her last, and she had made her peace with God a long time ago that she would likely never reach heavens gates, and that she would be cast down to hell to pay for her crimes, but in that moment she needed the knight's forgiveness before carrying out her detested task.

"Just make it quick," he gasped slowly, painfully. "It would appear I underestimated you Mistress Meryck," he looked up at her with weakening eyes. His life was slowly fading.

"So it would seem," she sighed grabbing the handle of her prized dagger, gripping it tightly. Grabbing his head by the hair she brought his neck back, exposing it for all to see and giving it a sharp jerk to the right, and then again all the way to the left – she slit his throat open. Warm crimson blood spilled over her fingers and sprayed her shirt as she twisted and wrenched her knife from his now lifeless body. The feeling of the Knight's blood running over her fingers brought back memories of night not so different from tonight, when another knight's blood spilled over her fingers after she finished slitting his throat.

She felt nauseous thinking about that night. Fortunately the raging pain that radiated and burned from her arm brought her back to the present situation. She sighed softly and let his lifeless body fall to the floor.

Lysa looked down at her defeated champion and then back to the girl. "I will not acknowledge a cheat and an enchantress as the victor!"

Jacquelyn looked up at the woman with contempt and mild disgust. 'Seriously what the fuck is wrong with you?' She cursed, yelling up at Lysa. " I have fought with as much courage and honour as Ser Vardis even though you would tip the scales in your favor. And may I cite article 39 of the Kings law passed down by his King Robert from the house Baratheon in the year 292 AL which dictates that a champion may use a concealed weapon in a trial by combat only when the challenger fails to supply the opposing champion with a weapon or when the request for a weapon has been declined. So I guess that means I'm not a cheat" She gave Lysa a cheeky grin.

The matching looks of shock and awe on the Tully sisters faces was all the reward Jacquelyn needed. She smiled to herself, grateful that she had spoken with the local Maester. " And Lady Tully, I assure you if I was a enchantress then you would already be dead – and do not think that the thought has not crossed my mind." She held up a finger, warning Lysa. "However seeing as you are very much alive then I am no enchantress. Now if you'll excuse me but I do believe you are required by law to free the prisoner, return unto him all of his belongings, and we are to be granted safe passage from the Eeyrie. Your Grace." With a flourish she gave both of the Tully sisters a deep graceful bow before looking back at Ser Vardis. The familiar pangs of regret, sorrow and self-loathing coursed through her veins as she made her ay back to the fallen Knight.

She knelt down beside his empty vessel of a body and closed his eyes; reciting a small prayer before, dipping her fingers in his blood, making the crucifix on his body. She beckoned for the other knights to come forward and help her lift his body, and together they carried him to the moon door and gently dropped him down.

Jacquelyn went back to pick up his sword; as the victor this was technically hers now to do with as she pleased as the spoils of combat. She swung it around a couple of times mirroring the way he had at the start of the trial showing once and for all that she had her strength back after all, perhaps it was the just the adrenaline of her victory or perhaps her strength just took its sweet ass time coming. Either way it would likely not last long. She had to admit it was a good sword, strong, stable, and balanced – but she still threw it down the moon door.

"Every knight should be buried with his sword," she whispered softly. Once she was certain her eyes were dry she looked over at Tyrion and the guard, nodding. The guard slowly walked over to Tyrion, unhappy with what he was about to do, and unlocked the cuffs that restrained Tyrion's hands.

Tyrion looked up at one of the Lords standing beside Lady Catelyn and ordered his and Jacquelyn's effects be returned to them. He did a little jump and looked over at his champion eyes brimming with gratitude – but he was alone in his celebrations.


	5. Chapter 5

Once they left the High Hall of Arryn the world seemed to be a very different place. The sharp rays of sunlight brightly contrasted with the dim candlelight of the high hall, the trees danced in the wind full of life and vigor while the stone walls stood solemn with despair. While the men and women of the Eyrie mourned the death of Ser Vardis she and Lord Tyrion celebrated life.

Tyrion was jumping and hollering with joy, relieved that he would not go 'flying' today and grateful t the woman who made it possible. He wasn't sure what had shocked Lysa more – that her valiant Ser Vardis had been defeated in combat, or that he had been beaten by a woman. By the gods, he thought of the steeled look of calmly rage in her eyes as she threw that knife into his throat with expert precision, it made his blood run cold. How could he have missed the killer instincts that hid just beneath the surface of those strange pale eyes? He swore, never again would he underestimate a woman, especially if that woman was Jacquelyn Meryck.

Jacquelyn managed a small smile though her energy was fading. She needed a rest soon, otherwise she wouldn't make it two miles before collapsing. She had been a fool for fighting before she had fully recuperated, especially since she hadn't eaten a proper meal since 2012. She had been fortunate that exhaustion had never had an impact on her aim, and that no one noticed her two best throwing knives concealed in her arm braces the day she jumped through the moon door to an unknown fate.

Luckily her foolishness made Tyrion so happy he paid for her room and dinner that night at a small inn on the outskirts of the Eyrie. It was no different from any of the other inn's she had stayed at over the years, actually that wasn't true. There was something different about this place it reeked more than the others. It was small and a crowded so the smell of sweat and skin clung to their air like a thick cloud just above your head mixed with the putrid smell of moldy hay and the stench of infrequently changed chamber pots, but it had clean water to drink and fresh food to eat all with a roof over her head – that alone brought her some sense of comfort no matter how small.

There was one thing, one small thing, that excited her more than the hot food and perhaps a cold beer, and that was a bed. Tonight she would sleep in a bed, with blankets and pillows and she could not be more excited. The nights she had spent outside of the sky cells had been outside usually somewhere up high where she could keep an eye, and an ear, open for any news about Tyrion; or in barns and stables buried under mounds of hay, and if she was lucky, maybe a little bit extra to shape a pillow. She could never stay in one place too long for fear of being discovered and forced back into a cage.

In all her years as a shadow walker she learned to appreciate the little things in life, because in such a life full of uncertainty it was usually the little things that made a difference. And tonight she fully intended to take advantage of having an entire bed to herself before lord knows how many nights of sleeping outside again. Not that she minded sleeping outside, and now that she had her bag again it might actually be enjoyable, but the first rule of jumping: never say no to a bed when it is offered to you, especially right after a jump, never!

That night, after they finished their meager dinner of roast pig with roasted potatoes and some slop they passed off as boiled vegetables, they sat by the roaring fire as the Innkeeper brought over another round. Tyrion lifted his cup – " To my lady, my champion, my victor. I never should have doubted you," he toasted. "To getting out alive, And to my Lord for hosting such a glorious feast" she affirmed with a wink and drank the contents of her cup with a single gulp.

Once she had her fill she set down her own crude wooden cup and studied the amber liquid inside. Hundreds of thoughts and questions repressed prior to her arrest now resurfaced and burned in the corners of her mind.

Now that both she and Lord Tyrion were safe she had to deal with the usual problems of jumping. Where would she go from here? Would she find a village and try to call it home? Or would she do what she usually tried to do and go off and live in the woods, and off the land? Yes, that would be her safest choice. After spending days in the town listening to the idle gossip of the common folk it didn't take her long to realize that she didn't belong here – not that she belonged anywhere really, but here it was plain to see that she was an outsider.

Ordinarily she would pass her self off as some refugee from a village raided by soldiers from whatever country or tribe they were at war with, but after her near misses with Tyrion and listening to the people she realized that she had no idea when she was or where she was for that matter. The names of the kings and the countries, they made no sense. Never before had she heard of 'the Westeros.' Was there a Northoros, Southeros and Eastoros as well?

She could live in the forest, far from the Eyrie, somewhere she could hunt and set up camp. She would live the simple life she always wanted- far away from people asking her questions about where she was from, or why she spoke funny. She could spend her days doing as she please, hunting, or gathering herbs to sell to villages she came across during her travels and her nights stretched out by a campfire beneath the stars as the winds gently washed her face with cool air and the smoke told her stories of times gone by. The thought of living in the forest enticed her- there was just something about it that gave her a sense of calm and serenity. She knew it probably wouldn't work out like how she imagined, it never did, but at least she could dream.

Raging, and searing pain from her arm brought her from her daydreams back to reality. It stung and burned like nothing she had ever felt before. She tenderly rolled up the sleeve of the shirt Tyrion insisted on paying for her.

It was a plain grey shirt that tied up at the neck – one that a man would typically wear under his leathers and jerkin – he had bought it out of guilt, to make up for the sweater ruined earlier that day as Ser Vardis soaked it with blood when she slit his throat thus winning the trial by combat in Tyrion's favour.

The deep, long gash on her arm had not yet healed. Gently, she traced her fingers along the wound. The blood that had surrounded the gash was thick and lumped together, forming chunks of blood and skin along the walls, and while the heat of the fire burning inside her arms was feverish, the wound was cold to the touch. Never had she heard of a toxin capable of causing such a reaction, nor such pain.

"You're hurt?" Observed Tyrion, noticing her wound for the first time. " We must have someone look at that!" His tone had gone from gay and joyful to serious in the blink of an eye.

"It's fine" Jacquelyn insisted, meeting the imp's gaze her own. The intensity of his gaze on her arm was unsettling. " It looks worse than it is, it hasn't been cleaned yet. I just need some hot water and linens is all." She shrugged trying to brush it off, but Tyrion wasn't hearing of it.

He tried to argue the point further when a particularly busty tavern wench walked by with her breasts half exposed, temporarily distracting Tyrion from their quarrel.

Seizing the opportunity Jacquelyn added, " I'll have the innkeeper send some my chambers before we turn in. You'll see- it'll be better in the morning." At least she hoped it would be better in the morning. What she needed was to get to her room so she could figure out what toxin Ser Vardis had used on his blade, and if it had an antidote. She had already survived her execution and a lopsided battle with knight – there was no way in holy hell she was dying now from a poisoned wound. There was no way that was happening!

Tyrion looked at her skeptically, and reached out with his hand, touching the open wound with gentle fingers. " The wound looks angry my lady. At least have someone look at it before we leave." He insisted with earnest concern.

"It's nothing," Jacquelyn grumbled jerking her arm way from his tender touch, "nothing I haven't dealt with before." The last thing she needed was some quack 'healer' telling her what she needed. Knowing her luck they would probably suggest something ridiculous like leeches as a means of sucking the venom out. No thanks. She knew the reaches of medieval medicine, and she knew that she was probably more qualified than most to treat her wounds.

Tyrion inspected her arm in the dim light by the fire, never before realizing just how many scars marked it with large and small, thin and thick pink lines alike. He knew how they were caused, his brother had them and his father had them – battle scars. He could only wonder what she had done to earn them, and what exactly the rest of her body might look like. Was the rest of her covered in scars as well, or were they only confined to her arms?

"So it would appear," he pondered drinking again from his cup, not taking his eyes off the multitude of thin scars on her arm and hands.

Feeling the weight of his gaze on her arms Jacquelyn quickly rolled down her sleeve, and fastening the wrist closed before taking another drink from the cup and diverting her own gaze back on to the flames dancing and leaping in the hearth- anything to get the imp's stare off her arms before he could ask more questions.

Finally, after another couple rounds of insistence and denial she yielded to Tyrion's consistent badgering and called for the innkeeper to bring her a bowl of hot water and some linen.

Once he arrived with the steaming bowl and shredded linen she slowly started to dab at the wound dying the once white cloth an alarming purplish red. It was nothing she had ever seen – and she had done a fair bit of work with poison. She recalled her lessons with Father Malcolm and Brother Mortimer in the churches garden, going through the different kinds of plants and their uses as toxins and as antidotes. The book in her bag outlined every kind of toxic plant known to man and shadow walker, and their antidotes; surely whatever toxin ailed her would be listed along with its cure. Whatever this poison was it was potent, she had never seen her body react to a poison so quickly and so violently.

There wasn't much she could do now in the main room of the pub, but she would dress the wound better once she was in her own room and could use the supplies from the first aid kit she always kept in her bag. In all her years of jumping, Jacquelyn had managed to rack up an impressive number of injuries and scars, but not one of them grieved her as much as this. She could feel the poison in her veins. She could feel it racing its way slowly to her heart as he body attempted put up a fight, and delay the poison from taking hold for as long as she could. She had no idea how long she had before it started to take control of her body, she was exhausted and fresh from a jump so her immune system was shot.

She could only pray that she'd hold out long enough to find the cure. Shot immune system or not, she would still have more time than an ordinary man. As annoying as jumping, and being a shadow walker, could be it did have its benefits.

"Cheer up!" Tyrion ordered before guzzling down the rest of his drink. She couldn't remember what that made it, 7 – maybe 8 drinks altogether. For such a little person he could certainly hold his liquor.

Smiling politely she nodded looking up from her work, "I'm just tired you know – it's been a very trying week." What with jumping to some crazy ass country I've never heard of before, getting slapped, thrown in prison, jumping 600 feet to my death and then fighting for the life of someone else, killing a man in the process, all without adequate food or sleep- she mentally ran through the list.

"I know," Tyrion rested an affectionate hand on her arm, squeezing it tenderly. "I do not know how I will ever be able to repay you for what you have done for me." The light from the fire caused shadows to dance across his face telling a story that only she could read.

" You owe me nothing," she replied modestly before taking another sip of the bitter drink while mentally adding whisky to the list of things she missed from the 21st century. It was right up there with indoor plumbing, electricity, and the iPod. She was not a beer drinker and this particular brew was especially wretched.

"I owe you everything," Tyrion argued happily. The beer was slowly making its way to his head. Seeing him so happy, relaxed and drunk cheered her up. It was a stark contrast to the scared and wary Tyrion she had met in the sky cell – she found herself preferring the gay, happy little man whose company she was currently enjoying.

"Well you can start by helping me find a horse. Something tells me that in the next few days we will not be so welcomed here in the Vale. It would be in our best interest to put as much distance between us and this place as possib-"

But Tyrion was not listening, he was too busy nuzzling the bust tavern wench's now very publicly displayed bosom. Jacquelyn sighed and finished her drink before dumping the blood dyed water and retired for the night.

Sleep took her the moment her head fell against the soft pillow. It was a long and dreamless sleep; jut the way she liked it. She woke up at some point in the night and saw a ghostly, glowing moon shining brightly in the night sky. Approaching the window dressed in nothing but her grey shirt with a blanket wrapped around her for warmth she thought of the song she use to sing, and moon not all too different from the one that greeted her in her chambers. She stared out longing at that moon and watched her breath in the frigid night air. She softly sang the moon song to herself. It reminded her of home – well the closest thing she had to a home, and to a family.

She desperately longed to go for a ride on a night such as this. Under the cover of night and stars until the sickly pale light of the morning touched her face and the sun peaked out at her from beneath the mountain ridge; riding until she felt as though she had reached the very edge of the earth and yet never reaching a destination.

But that was not this night. No this night would be for sleep for she feared and hoped she would have many nights of riding in the darkened forest on the horizon. Letting out a soft exhale she turned and crawled back into bed.

Several hours passed before the soft, warm glow of sunlight chased away any remaining traces of night. Lord Tyrion was lying in bed, still half drunk from the night before with the breasts of a woman he did not know inches from his face. His head felt as though he had laid it out on a black smiths anvil and told him to take his largest hammer to it.

"Rise and shine," Jacquelyn walked in and threw his clothes at him.

Proceeding to walk across the room, stepping over the naked, passed out women on his floor she threw open the window.

One of the girls began to stir at the light before rolling over, returning to her dreams.

'Lucky girl,' Tyrion thought shielding his eyes from the light, trying to put his pants back, and grumbled about the ungodly hour.

" We need to get an early start if we want to get out of the Vale by tonight." She explained, "Unless you want to risk another run in with the Tully's."

Tyrion dressed in haste, nothing scared him more than the thought of going back into one of those tiny, frigid, sky cells.

10 minutes later both he and Jacquelyn strode out of the inn with their personal effects, and his purse strings a fair bit lighter. Following her advice they stopped at the nearest stable to look at horses, but after looking at the specimens that the breeder called 'the fairest in the land' they left. If those horses were the fairest in the land then horses in the Vale were all extremely under fed and about to keel over at any given moment.

They had more success at the next stable. Tyrion found a mount within minutes after crossing the premises. The first horse he saw was so drawn to the little man that it walked right up to him and began to nuzzle him, very much like the way he had been nuzzling the woman's bosom the night before.

Jacquelyn took longer to find a suitable horse. No ordinary horse would do, "he has to be sturdy and able to withstand several days of hard riding." She explained after looking at the third horse at one particular stable. The owner showed her several horses, and every single one of them looked as though they would fall over in a strong wind.

Giving up on the owner and his sales pitch she walked through the long rows of stalls where numerous horses neighed and whinnied when they saw her, but no one spoke to her until she found him.

He was a gorgeous bay coloured Clydesdale horse with white socks, and black hair. He was tucked far in the back away from all of the other horses.

The owner, a shrill stout little man easily on the latter end of his forties, making him old by the standards of the day, quickly tried to dissuade her from picking him. "Oh you won't like him misses," the owner said with a thick accent that Jacquelyn had no idea how to classify. In her world he sounded as though he might have been from Liverpool, but here – she had no clue.

"He bites, and throws off any man who tries to ride him. No good for riding, stupid beast won't even pull a simple plow." The owner kept babbling about the horse's bad temperament.

"Is he fast?" were the only words she asked the owner as she watched the horse watching her as they approached.

"Oh, he's the fastest I got," the owner admitted, " if he'd let anyone ride him. I told you, he doesn't like any man."

"Then good thing I'm not a man." She said over her shoulder to the owner while opening the horse's stall gate. The bay horse watched intently with large amber eyes as she approached him slowly.

Much to the owner's surprise, the horse made no fuss as Jacquelyn approached. Quietly, he stood by letting her run her hands over his neck. She whispered some words in a funny dialect that neither Tyrion nor the horse owner recognized, but somehow the horse under stood what she said because he stepped forward out of the stall and stood calmly and patiently for her to mount.

Jacquelyn walked over to the horse slowly and began to undo the knots that fastened the saddle to his body.

"What are you doing?" The owner shrieked as Jacquelyn handed him the saddle.

"You're using the wrong saddle." She looked over on the wall of saddles and found and old worn out leather saddle sitting alone in one corner ignored and forgotten – just like the horse. The leather was well worn, and had survived many seasons. There were patches where the leather had been so worn that it shone in the light as though it had been polished with waxes that would not exist for hundreds, maybe even thousands of years. But like the horse, there was something about the saddle that spoke to something deep inside of her. "May I?" She asked looking over her shoulder to the stable owner.

The funny little old man, surprised by his demon horse's sudden compliance, shrugged and helped her lift the saddle off the wall. She gently fastened it on top of an old soft blanket to cushion the use of a saddle.

"I think I'll name you Trystan," She said sliding off the saddle after riding him around the property a few times. The owner was right about on thing – he was fast. Nudging her shoulder affectionately with his nose, suggesting that he liked the name too.

"Trystan?" Tyrion chuckled, repeating the name to himself, "what a funny name."

Jacquelyn thought to comment about how rich that was coming from a dwarf with the name Tyrion, but opted not to say anything on the matter. "It's the name of a hero from one of the stories of my people." She said not putting too much credence into it. There was something about the horse's eyes that reminded her of the tragic Arthurian hero.

After paying the owner for the two horses Tyrion and Jacquelyn set off on their newly acquired steeds for their ride to the Palisade village. The village was on the very outskirts of the Eyrie, once they were past the village they would be out of crazy Lysa Tully's grasp.

They stopped maybe once or twice along the way to eat and to give the horses a small break. Tyrion now understood what she had meant by wanting a sturdy horse, Trystan was barely phased by the intense, rocky ride, while his little horse looked as though it as ready to collapse if it had to endure much more.

It finally came time for Tyrion and Jacquelyn to part ways. They had passed the Palisade maybe an hour or so ago. Anxious to get as far away as possible Jacquelyn decided to ride through the village and Tyrion followed. They only stopped again, for the horses to rest and have some water before they parted.

Jacquelyn rested against one of the large grey boulders with Tyrion by her side as their horses hunted for any traces of grass buried beneath the light snow covering the ground.

Tyrion planned to head south along the King's Road towards the Crossroads Inn where he would send word to is brother and assure him of his safety before making his way home. "What do you intend to do now, Mistress Meryck?" He asked rolling onto his back to look up at the dim grey sky.

She took a deep breath, allowing the air to fill her lungs completely before exhaling, and looking out towards the wintery land that now lay before her. The sense of adventure stirred deep within her and she couldn't help but wonder what else was out there in this strange but beautiful land? Whatever there was, she wanted to see it, all of it. "I think I'll head north," she said pointing along a mountainous ridge, "I can live off the forest as I go."

"Just don't go too far north," Tyrion warned, " a pretty young woman like yourself would not find much welcome at the wall."

"The wall?" She asked looking over at him, "What pray tell is, 'the wall?'" She asked comically but eager to know the answer. How could something simply labeled ' the wall' be serious? It just sounded funny, like something in a fairytale where everything is only referred to as 'the castle' or 'the cottage.' She was curious.

"Someplace you don't want to be," Tyrion reiterated gently swatting her arm, making sure she knew how serious he was.

Grinding her teeth she nodded, trying to ignore the ripples of pain that his swat as sent up her arm. Days later and her wound had not yet healed. Every day she cursed herself more and more for disposing of his blade before learning what he had used to poison it.

"Come with me to King's Landing," He begged. "We need more women with your kind of intelligence and courage at the court – the court has become dreadfully dull – you could liven it up again."

Jacquelyn chuckled glancing over at her friend, " Trust me Lord Tyrion, the last thing your court needs is a woman like me. Unable to keep her mouth shut every time someone acts like a moron – you realize I would most likely end up insulting the King, or your sister the Queen."

"Oh I'm counting on it," Tyrion laughed, " but that's what would make it so much more fun. Besides, it would not kill Cersei to be taken down a notch or two."

'No' Jacquelyn thought, ' but it might kill me.' She smiled as she shook her head and looked back towards the thick forest that awaited her. She was so close she could almost hear the smell the pine and cedar calling her. "I'm sorry my lord but the woods are my home, and I'm afraid I've been gone too long, they're calling for me."

Tyrion ruffled his shaggy blonde hair sheepishly and smiled nervously at her. "I want you to have this." Handing her a pendant with a lion's head. "It is a token of my family, and it marks you as a friend of the Lannister's. If you are ever in need – please do not hesitate. You will always be welcomed at Kings Landing." He didn't really know what else to say to the woman who had so selflessly saved his life and continued to protect him from the forces of Lysa Tully. He also felt an overwhelming shame for having ever doubted her as his victor; this was the least he could do to repay her.

She took the pendant and slipped it gently into her leather satchel. Wanting to return the favor she dug a small bottle or golden liquid from her bag.

"Here," she gently tossed him the small bottle.

"What is it?" he asked looking at the bottle dubiously.

"It's called whisky. It's a drink from my home land. I brought a couple of small bottle with me." After having no luck with her book and identifying the toxin she found a couple travel size bottles in one of the pockets inside of her bag. "Just be careful, it's stronger than the stuff you're use to."

Tyrion unscrewed the lid and crinkled his nose at the strong smell of the fiery liquid.

"It tastes a lot better than it smells," she assured him, "especially if you add it to your tea."

Tyrion nodded, unsure as to whether or not he believed her, and gently placed the bottle in his breast pocket.

"I guess this is it," she shrugged not knowing what else to say. Part of her wished that she did not have to say farewell to the only friend she managed to make so far, especially after already making so many enemies, but she knew it was the best for both of them. Their paths were leading them in separate directions for the time being, but she had a feeling this would not be the last time she saw Tyrion Lannister.

"Take care of yourself," he smiled at her fondly as she mounted Trystan ready to ride off.

"Mistress Meryck." He added, " they will tell stories about you one day, stories about the girl who could fly –how did you survive that fall?" He asked as it suddenly came to mind. He had been so relieved to be released that he had forgotten about her escape.

With a cunning smile she laughed as she spoke, " That is a story for another day Lord Tyrion." She looked down at her braces and gently traced along the hawks carved into the leather with her fingertips. Today was a day for making stories, not reciting them.

"please, I must know," He pleaded standing up on the tallest boulder.

"Get use to disappointment," she yelled over her shoulder, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips, before sending Trystan into a full gallop towards the mountains.

Tyrion chuckled as he watched her and Trystan ride toward the mountainside where Gods know what would be waiting for her. He looked down at the small bottle in his pocket. He prayed to the old Gods and the New, and to whatever Gods she believed in that she would be safe.

He turned his own horse and pointed him in the direction of King's Landing and set off on the long journey home.


	6. Chapter 6

Jon Snow was freezing standing at his post along the icy top of the wall. Icy blasts of true northern wind shook snow from treetops, and cut through him with the ease of a hot knife slicing through butter. He reached out with one of his gloved hands and pulled the black furs, lining his cloak, attempting to keep some of the heat from escaping his body while cursing as the cold continued to chill him to his very core.

He had been in this frozen wasteland for Gods know how long now, and the words of his late father repeated in his mind like a distant prayer. Winter is coming. Well it was here now; the question was, when was it going to go away?

Hunger gnawed at the pit of his empty stomach; he failed to recall the last time he ate more than watery soup with some old bread. There were few rations left at the wall and they dwindled more and more each day. You considered yourself lucky if you got more than one lump of chicken in your soup; frigid winter temperatures had sent most, if not all, the wild game south and it was becoming harder to keep livestock at the wall.

Rubbing his arms under his cloak, Jon tried to remember a time where he had ever been this cold – yesterday perhaps or maybe the day before that? He'd probably be just as cold tomorrow if not colder. For those who could remember the last winter, prior to the long summer, they were calling this to be the coldest winter in over half a century.

A soft growl by his feet interrupted his thoughts. He smiled bending down to scratch Ghost behind the ear. The albino dire wolf looked up at his master, from where he lay curled up at his feet, licking at his glove offering the affectionate nip occasionally.

"I know," Jon sighed. "I miss it too." He hadn't expected to miss his time with the wildlings as much as he did; he had been back at the wall for a while now, and was still having difficulty adjusting. Part of him wished that he had never returned to his duty at the wall, that he had stayed wild and free. He wasn't alone in that regard. After being in the wild on his own, while Jon was in the wildling camp, Ghost made his way back to Jon's side at the wall a few weeks ago.

There was something different about the dire wolf though, something had changed while he had been out in the wild, but Jon couldn't quite put his finger on it; the wolf had grown restless and impatient as though waiting for something he already knew was going to happen. Strangely enough he felt it too. It was an effect of skin walking – something he learned he was capable of when he was with the wildlings.

He had a connection with Ghost that went far beyond the reaches of pet and master. There was a link between their minds. It granted him access to Ghost's thoughts and emotions; he didn't just know when Ghost was hungry, he felt it in the pit of his stomach reaching up with pangs of hunger rippling through his body that would only be sated when the direwolf fed.

Ever since then deep down in his bones there was something clawing at him, telling him that something was coming, something big.

He finished patting Ghost when he growled again. Jon noticed Ghost jump to his feet abruptly and growl at something in the woods. Jon looked out to see what Ghost was growling at, but there was nothing there. " I don't see anything," Jon grumbled looking down at the wolf. Ghost quickly glanced up at Jon before peering back towards the woods.

Jon sighed and looked again, still nothing. "There's nothing there, you stupid beast," he growled in frustration glaring back at his direwolf.

Ghost yipped in disagreement before running to the switchback stairway.

Jon called out after him, ordering him to return, but Ghost ignoring his every word kept running.

Again Jon looked out to the forest, certain there was nothing there.

Moments passed with Jon straining his eyes trying to see what it was that had gotten Ghost into such a frenzy- then he saw it.

The trees rustled as another gust of northern wind shook their branches, while something large and grey wandered toward the wall. His heart quickened as he waited, eager with anticipation for the massive creature to come closer to the clearing. In all of his months at the wall, and with the wildlings, he had not seen much wildlife, and certainly nothing of substantial size. If it was a bear, or even a deer, it would have enough meat the feed the men for at least a day, maybe even two. His mouth salivated with the thought of meat for dinner; a nice chunk of deer or bear roasted over a roaring fire with soft tender vegetables and thick succulent potatoes baked with some butter and herbs for seasoning. Gods, what a meal that would be!

Mentally he willed the creature to come closer, as the image of the perfect meal drenched his mouth with saliva, but the beast was still too far away for him to get a good view. He was not the only hungry man at the wall, and he needed to know what he was going to be hunting.

Seconds passed by like hours before the creature appeared in the clearing, only it wasn't a bear, or a deer.

It was a horse, a large bay coloured horse with a bulky grey lump. Jon watched the horse wander aimlessly for a moment or two before he realized that the grey lump was the horse's rider.

Quickly, he took off in the same direction Ghost had only moments earlier, nearly running over Sam in the process.

"Where you off to in such a hurry?" Sam jested. "And where is Ghost going? I saw him making his way to the stables, not five minutes ago."

"There is a horse and rider some 2 miles away." Jon explained hurriedly as he entered the lift.

"What?" Sam asked surprised, "you sure?"

It wasn't that he didn't believe Jon, or thought Jon might be lying Sam would never think such a thing about his dearest friend at the wall. Jon had been one of the only people to ever show Sam any kindness in his life, not just at the wall. He merely found it difficult to believe that someone would be so bold as to ride openly in the heart of wildling territory without being a wildling them self.

"Positive," Jon confirmed. " I'm going to ride out."

"What should I do?" Sam asked dumbfounded by the news.

"Get Mormont to send a couple rangers to the clearing 2 miles Southwest to meet me. If they're a wildling I doubt they'll come without a fuss."

"It could be a trap," Sam observed pulling nervously at the fur lining in his vest.

Jon looked scrupulously at his friend, his thoughts written plainly by the lines of his face, ' what a bizarre thought.' Then again of course Sam would think it was a trap – he was a coward, and as such he wanted to avoid anything and everything unless it happened to be supper.

" I'm just saying, don't you think it's a bit odd, someone just riding alone so close to the wall in the heart of wildling country?"

It did seem a little strange now that he stopped to think about it, but the urge to go investigate overrode his common sense. This was the thing he had been waiting for, months of waiting with anticipation for Gods know what had finally arrived and he just had to know what it was.

"I don't know how to explain it Sam," he searched for the words to explain his brash behavior. Giving up on trying to explain his feelings he shrugged, " It just doesn't feel like a trap. You can stay if you want." He clapped his good friend on the shoulder with his burned hand sending a minor tremor of pain up the length of his arm. The pain had decreased to the point where most days it was non-existent or he had grown so accustomed to it that he merely didn't notice it. It still left his hand disfigured, but every once in a while the slightest contact grieved him with surges of fiery pain. "I'm going."

Sam offered him a wary smile, "bring Longclaw with you," he advised. "You know," he mumbled looking down at his feet, "just incase." Adding the last part sheepishly. He knew Jon would bring his beloved sword with him, for so long Jon had been his only friend at the wall. The others tolerated him, but they weren't his friends, not truly. Sam would be lost without Jon were something to happen.

Jon smiled appreciatively towards his friend before racing off in the same direction Ghost had gone some ten minutes ago.

After finding Ghost waiting patiently for Jon in the stables, just as Sam had said, and readying his horse with great haste, they raced through the gate towards the woods where they last saw the mystery horse and rider. They had barely crossed into the forest when they came across them.

Now that he had a better look at the mystery rider he could tell even less about him. He leaned forward over the horse, with stooped shoulders and, the hood of his cloak was pulled over his head – giving Jon no view of his face. There was no way of indicating the size of the man before him, or what may lay hidden beneath his cloak. As far as Jon knew he was armed and potentially very dangerous.

Summoning all of his courage to address the hooded stranger. Jon sat taller in his saddle, and in his most authoritative voice, commanded the rider to show his face.

The rider said something, but his voice and words were lost gust of wind before they could reach Jon's ears.

He tried again. "I am a watcher on the wall, tell me your business here and perhaps you shall pass."

Nothing.

Gritting his teeth in frustration Jon dismounted his horse and strode over to the horse. 'How dare he ignore me' Jon grumbled to himself gently placing a hand on the pommel of Longclaw. He had spent enough time with the wildlings to know a thing or two about their smugness in regards to the Night's Watch. This rider would talk one way or another.

There was a low moan as Jon approached the large horse. Without warning, the rider leaned to one side of the massive horse, falling from where he had been apparently laying on the horse.

Instinctively Jon rushed forward to catch him before the man hit the ground. His hood flew back as he fell, revealing pools of long hair blacker than Jon's, darker than the night itself.

A woman.

Her skin was cold, and it had taken an eerie shade of bluish white- as though made from the snow of a cloudy day. Her lips were a faint, soft pink. Reminding Jon of the statues in the crypts of Winterfell. At least, what he remembered of them.

He did not go down there often, he wasn't a true Stark. The one and only time he had gone into the crypts had been when he was a youth of seven, and Robb along with Theon Greyjoy had dared him. He remembered crying the entire time he was in the dimly lit passages of the crypts; the statues frightened him. His father found him sitting on the floor in front of the statue of his aunt Lyanna an hour later after Robb told Eddard how Theon had locked him in the Crypt. Both Robb and Theon were sent to bed that night without supper, and Lord Stark had ensured that the cooks made Robb's favourite that night to make his punishment all the worse. Eddard never found out that Jon tucked some away in his pockets wrapped in a linen napkin and brought it up to Robb that night to thank him for getting their father to let Jon out. He could have cared less what happened to Theon, he didn't trust him- not then and even less now.

Jon stopped, his head hovering just above her chest as she lay in his arms, listening for the slightest hint of life breath perhaps, or a heartbeat praying to the Gods that she was not dead.

The beat was faint, but steady. She opened her eyes for a brief second and she looked at him with the most fascinating grey eyes he had ever seen. She moaned as though trying to say something to him.

He tried telling her to conserve her strength, but she persisted. She looked at him as though she knew him from somewhere and was in disbelief to see him again. A strange word eventually escaped her lips, " Blaidd Brennin?" It wasn't so much a statement, but a question. As though she had to be sure it was really him.

Whatever strength she had gave out once more and forced her eyes to flutter shut.

"I have you," Jon whispered to her, unsure whether or not she could hear him. He cradled her head close to his chest, "You're safe."

Jon carried the girl in his arms out of the woods followed by the horses and Ghost. The large horse the girl had been riding followed them willingly, protectively watching over her.

They had not gotten far from the forest when a small party from the wall greeted them, including: Sam, Pyp, Maester Aemon, Ser Alliser and Mormont himself. Sam and Pyp rode ahead of the elders to greet Jon and to help him with his load. Approaching the large horse, Sam nearly fell over backwards as Ghost snarled barring his teeth at him.

Jon looked back and stifled a chuckle – Ghost had made a friend or so it would seem.

"What do you have here, Lord Snow?" Alliser sneered as he and the others caught up with Sam and Pyp, who were busy fastening the horses' reins to their own steeds.

"A woman," Jon answered ignoring Alliser's irksome if not demeaning nickname for him. "I spotted her horse from the wall, and I thought she might be in distress." He shifted to redistribute the weight a little. Not that she was heavy, she was actually quite light for someone her size. " When I got to her, here in the woods, she fell from her horse. I think she's ill."

"Rescuing maidens in distress is best left for the Knights, not the bastards, of the Nights Watch." Alliser criticized him.

"Well it didn't look like you were about to do anything about it." Jon shot back angrily. He hated Ser Alliser with every fiber of his body. At the wall, all men were suppose to be treated as equals, despite what they were back home; and yet Ser Alliser made it his mission to remind Jon as often as possible that he was still Ser Eddard Stark's bastard son.

Maester Aemon made a slight clicking noise while getting off from his horse, and approached Jon and the girl. "Simmer down you two," he chided both of them. It frustrated him to no end that a life might be at risk and they still could not put their egos aside. He reached over and laid an old leathery hand on her bare cheek, " oh dear, she is as cold as the ice," he observed, "and yet she is still breathing." He was about to say something else when he paused and took a small sniff just above the unconscious girl. "We need to bring her back to Castle Black immediately," he ordered Jon.

"Bring her to the castle?" Alliser cried in outrage. "We know nothing of this woman!"

"Is it not our duty to protect the people of the seven kingdoms from what lay beyond the wall?" Jon reminded Alliser of their vows and the purpose of the Night's watch.

"For all we know she could be a wildling spy!" Alliser persisted in his arguing.

"Does the girl look like a Wildling to you Alliser?" Maester Aemon argued, raising his usually calm and mild voice startling everyone around him.

It was true. She was dressed like no wilding any of them had ever seen, or any woman for that matter. Instead of a wool dress or thick furs and numerous layers she wore a shredded grey cloak with a linen shirt like the one Jaime Lannister had worn at Winterfell only in grey instead of gold, strange tight black pants and fine black boots. The boots were finer than anything a wildling owned with supple black leather lined with grey fox fur. They looked as though they were hand made but they were not the same bulky fur boots worn by the wildlings. Colours aside, she was dressed for a day in Kings Landing not for the cold harsh weather of the North.

" If we don't bring the girl to the castle, I'm afraid she won't last much longer."

"You know what ails her?" The old bear asked looking impressed at the ancient man standing before them.

"Yes, I'm afraid so," Maester Aemon admitted.

Jon knew he should feel relief, if Maester Aemon knew what ailed her then surely he would be able to cure her, but there was something wrong. Maester Aemon was a renowned healer, so why was his ancient face riddled with fear and confusion.

"Well, what is it?" Jeor asked mildly annoyed that Aemon had not explained his response to them.

"I'm afraid the girl has been poisoned with the root of the Mythryr plant." Maester Aemon explained.

"Is there nothing we can do?" Jon asked frantically, still holding her in his arms. He did not know what the Mythryr root was, it was a strange word from a foreign language, but judging from the context of their discussion it did not sound good.

"Ordinarily no," Aemon answered slowly.

" What is it Maester Aemon?" Sam asked looking concerned as he joined their conversation. "You look troubled."

"Well this is the strange part," Maester Aemon explained to them. "Mythryr is a small reddish orange flower that produces an extremely lethal toxin guaranteed to result in an immediate, and very painful death. " He paused to think. "The only part of the Westeros I can recall producing Mythryr root is deep in the Eyrie, close to the Vale, they call it by its name in the common tongue: fire thistle.

That was a name Jon recognized. He recalled lady Catelyn Stark talking about the fire thistle once or twice during the recollections of her visits to the Vale in her girlhood. She did not reminisce often when Jon was present but there was the odd time he would over hear her conversing with Maester Luwin or with Sansa's Septa.

Part of him wished that Catelyn hadn't felt the need to keep her life a secret from him. No, he was not her son, and yes he was Eddard's bastard, but he was not some spy out to sabotage their marriage – despite what she thought. Her resentment towards him always weighed heavily on him, but he forcefully reminded himself that that was his old life, and this girl was his present.

"The flower can only grow in the cool shade of trees grown on the mountains, and once cut the root's toxin must be drawn immediately before it dries out." Aemon continued explaining the origins of the toxin. "The toxin mixes with the blood, slowly causing the temperature to rise drastically until it reaches the heart – literally boiling it within the blood. By all accounts the girl should have died immediately after contact."

Sam, Pyp and Jon exchanged concerned mixed with awe looks when they heard Maester Aemon. Ser Jeor and Alliser were not as impressed; they remained a little more skeptical of the little old man.

"How can you be certain?" Mormont asked curiously. It wasn't that he didn't believe Aemon; it was more like he wanted to be sure before deciding what to do about the girl. How easy could it be to pin point an exact toxin when you can't see?

"If you roll up her left sleeve you will find an angry wound that has a shockingly sweet smell. I smelt it the moment I approached her." Maester Aemon explained. Upon losing his sight in his old age his other senses were quickly heightened, allowing him to continue his duties at the wall with relative ease. "It's distinct to only the Mythryr."

Jon lowered his head towards to girl and, as discreetly as possible, sniffed around her. He mentally admitted that he smelled nothing.

"Jeor, please," the blind Maester pleaded. He was not use to begging, but he was not above it when a life was on the line especially when somebody already fought so hard against the odds to keep that life. "If I don't tend to her now then we may as well start digging her a grave. She doesn't have much time."

"Old friend," Jeor spoke calmly to the aged man knowing that what he was about to say would upset him greatly. " We do not have the resources to care for the girl; we barely have enough food to keep the wall running. Not to mention, we don't even have a bed for her to sleep-"

"She can have mine!" Jon interrupted the Lord Commander. "Ser, she is fading fast, please. Let us take her to the castle where Maester Aemon can care for her. She can use my chambers until she is better. I can sleep in the stables. There has been more space there since we returned from our quest beyond the wall. Please! "

"She has food," Sam piped up. Jon turned to look at his friend, wondering how Sam could know. "Yeah, about three days worth of game, some bread, cheese, sausage and I think a couple apples– I saw it as I was tying her horse to mine. They're in the bag tied to the back of her horse." Sam pointed towards the sturdy workhorse that the girl had been riding. "I don't think she'd mind if we used it – in exchange for Maester Aemon's services and all." Sam looked at his feet as he spoke to the elders. He was still scared of Alliser and the old bear – then again you would be a fool not to be a little afraid of them, especially Alliser, who made Sam's life hell as often as he possibly could.

"Very well!" The old bear agreed, yielding to the boys' pleas. "Do you have everything needed for the antidote?" He looked over as Maester Aemon quickly scuttled back to his horse. " The Mythryr is a very rare toxin, on account of the fact that once the flower is plucked the root dries quickly. Fortunately the dried root mixed with some milk of the poppy and the thorn of the winter rose should restore her. I know of only one man who poisons his sword with the Mythryr root; I only wonder what it is that she did to upset him so much." He turned towards Jon. "Tell me boy, what colour is the wound?"

Confused by the randomness of Master Aemon's question Jon looked down at her gently exposed arm. He saw a long pink puckered line of skin that had scarred over slashing across her arm, but the skin beneath the scar was strange shade of purple running along the veins or her arm.

" The wound has closed," Jon said shakily, " but underneath the skin there are long purple lines tracing along her veins." He lowered her a bit for Jeor and Alliser to see the long, defined lines running up her arm.

Sam momentarily took her in his arms, allowing Jon to mount his horse.

Maester Aemon, who had already turned his horse back towards the castle, turned back to look at them after hearing Jon's description of the wound. "By the gods," he whispered in disbelief, "It can't be."

"What is it?" Jon asked alarmed, staring down at the girl as Sam passed her back for him to hold. What kind of trouble had she gotten herself into?

"Nothing," Aemon said quickly, " nothing, nothing at all. It is just that the situation would seem to be more critical than I previously imagined. We must ride with haste if we want to save the girl." He didn't wait for the others to reply before turning the horse around racing back to the wall.

"Jon, you and Jeor get her up to your room as quickly as you can. I need Sam to help me retrieve a few things from my hut before I can tend to her." Aemon began giving orders as soon as they returned to Castle Black. "Pyp get some water boiled, we will need lots of it – bandages too. There is going to be a lot of blood." He turned walking away towards his hut. "Alliser," he turned back suddenly remembering the last member of their party, " don't get in the way," he warned, dismissing him entirely, before scuttling off with Sam.

Jon caught the tiny hint of a smile on Sam's face as Alliser stood opened mouth in the stables in disbelief that a hundred year old blind man had dismissed him as though he was a troublesome child.

Jon carried the girl as the Mormont cleared the way. Dozens of the men flocked towards them sure that their eyes deceived them.

Surely it must be a hallucination of sorts, there was no way it could be true. There was a woman at the wall.

Jon gritted his teeth and fought against every urge to pass her off to Mormont, draw Longclaw and start slicing through the crowd that now formed around him.

Many of the men had been rapers in their past lives, and most would have likely continued their 'trade' had they not been caught. Having any woman, attractive or not would tempting for any man who had taken the black – especially to those who had grown accustom to forcing themselves unto unwilling women.

Jeor held the door open for Jon as he entered his chambers, closing the door behind him. Laying her gently onto his bed, he wondered if this would be the first time in the history of the wall that a woman would be in a member of the wall's bed.

Jeor strode over to the heath, and began building a fire while Jon grabbed a pocketknife, slicing away the sleeves of her shirt.

Aemon was right, the wound was large and it was angry.

The girl remained unconscious.

Every time Jon looked at her he secretly held his breath praying that she had not yet given in to death. He would only relax slightly when he saw her chest rise and fall with staggered breath. Maester Aemon had instructed Jon to open both sleeves incase of a secondary wound on her right arm. Pushing away the grey material and turning her arm over for inspection Jon stopped.

"Is there anything on the right arm?" The blind brother's words startled Jon, causing him to jump almost knocking poor Sam over. He had not expected the to reach his chambers so quickly, but was relieved that they had. She might live still.

"I don't see a wound," Jon started hesitantly, but."

"But what?" Aemon stopped suddenly, eagerly waiting for Jon to finish his report.

"But there is a strange mark," Jon had no idea what it was, or really how to explain it.

"Strange? Strange how?" Aemon asked intrigued with a slight hint of anxious.

"Well she has a strange symbol painted under her skin." Jon tried to explain. He had never seen anything like this. " There is some script underneath he stammered.

"Well boy," Aemon barked, " out with it! What does it say?" He demanded to know.

"It says 'eyes open.'" Jon rushed through the words quickly.

Aemon straightened up and stopped what he was doing. "Jon, this symbol, does it look kind of like an arrowhead, with some complicated knot pattern?" he asked slowly, almost afraid of the answer.

Jon looked back down at the odd mark. Now that Maester Aemon mentioned it, the mark did kind of look like an arrowhead. Why didn't he see that before? "Yes," was all he could say. He was more interested in how the weathered Maester knew, and why he suddenly looked terrified.

"By the Gods," Maester Aemon whispered. "After all these years- it can't be."

"Can't be what Maester Aemon?" Sam asked coming up beside his master.

The Maester shook his head, ignoring Sam's question even though everyone in the room was wondering the same thing, and set to work. "Samwell, I need you to make in incision in her arm, tracing along the scar. Once you've opened that up, I will need you to make another incision. This one will follow the poison line down her arm towards the wrist. The poison lines follow the veins, so prepare to mop up a lot of blood with the soaked clothes once the wound is opened," Aemon instructed in a calm steady manner.

The very mention of blood caused Sam's large round face to turn green with sick, and he found himself needing to sit down.

"Maester, maybe I should help you with the incisions – Sam becomes faint at the side of blood, and as you said there is going to be a lot of it." Jon suggested.

Aemon nodded in agreement. "I think that would be a wise idea Snow. I don't need to patients to care for." He turned around to face Jeor and Sam. "Go check to see how Pyp is coming along with finding more bandages. Maybe get started on dinner after that." Aemon suggested before turning his attention back to the girl.

Ser Jeor closeded the door behind him and Sam, to give Jon and the Maester privacy, also to protect the girl from any unwanted visitors.

Maester Aemon wasted no time after Jon confirmed making the cuts he had been instructed to make.

Jon watched with fascination as Maester Aemon poured strange purplish liquid goo on the open cuts. He swore he could hear the low hiss of a dozen or so wild cats as the goo made contact with the open wound, but the thick purple lines slowly faded. For the first time since he found her Jon was smiling. "Maester, it's working," he leaned over excitedly watching the thick purple lines slither back up her arm.

"Of course it is," the little old man snapped. "But we will have to wait to see if it will work completely. The poison has been in her body for a long time, it may have spread further than what we know." Aemon studied the unconscious girl. Just how long has she been living with this poison? It would have made life very difficult for her, especially if she had been on her own. "I'm afraid we're not quite out of the woods. The antidote will take a few days to draw all the poison out, and in that time we still might lose her to fever or infection." He tenderly rested a frozen hand to her forehead. She raged with fever, and a thin sheen of sweat broke dampened her face.

Her body was at war now; the antidote and toxin fighting for control as she lay helpless in the crossfire. He could only hope that she would be strong enough to keep fighting the toxin now that help arrived she just needed to hold out a few more days.

He needed her to hold out just a little bit longer. Tonight he would pray to the old Gods and the seven to keep watch over the girl, and to give her the strength she needed not to succumb to this disease. Without looking up he felt the weight of the young stewards gaze on him, and his concern for the girl. "Her wound healed quickly, I have no doubt these cuts will heal quickly as well." Aemon explained quietly. "We'll have to bleed her daily, maybe even twice a day to make sure we get all the toxin out."

Jon gulped as he nodded, unable to take his eyes off her gentle pale face. She looked even paler than before, if that were possible. 'Don't die,' he pleaded silently. 'You can do anything you want, just please don't die.' He remembered the only other time he begged a woman not to die. She died anyways, in his arms. Shaking his head, Jon turned his thoughts back to the girl in his bed. He forced himself to remember her strange but fantastic eyes. They were grey as the winter sky but with a tiny ring of ice blue, like the roses that grew on the vines of Winterfell, just around the centre. Never before had he seen anyone with such intriguing eyes.

Her words burned in the back of his mind. 'Blaidd Brennin,' that's what she had called him. He didn't have the faintest idea as to what it meant. He thought of asking the Maester if her recognized the words or even the language, but not wanting to disturb the old man as he worked, he decided against it.

A little while later Sam and Pyp knocked on the door. They brought a large pot of hot water and a pile of bandages with them, along with two bowls of fresh rabbit stew. Never before had rabbit stew tasted so delicious, with thick chunks of sausage and potato mixed in. Jon savored each bite as Aemon continued his work.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting, Aemon finally turned back to the boys as they sat by the hearth keeping warm with their empty bowls. "We've done all we can for today. All we can do now is wait. Wait, and pray that the Gods will be merciful." Aemon bowed his head at the boys and began to clean the mound of bloodied bandages. Sam stood first and helped the Maester carry the bundle of bandages out to his hut where they would clean them for tomorrow's bleeding.

Pyp got up and headed towards the door. "You coming Snow – you can bunk with me and Tarly until she's better." He offered with a smile.

Jon offered his brother a half-hearted smile out of gratitude for the offer. "I think I'm going to stay here a little longer." Jon declined.

Pyp shrugged and rubbed at the sleep in his eyes. "Suit yourself, Snow." He closed the door gently behind him as he left. His footsteps fading as he walked down the stone corridor.

With nothing but the roaring fire to break the silence now, Jon stretched and wandered a little closer to the girl. Maester Aemon tucked her under the furs to keep her warm. Both of her arms rested gently on top of the thick black furs Jon used for warmth at night. He looked down and saw the bandaging that wrapped half way up her left arm, past her elbow. Some of the pristine white bandages had started to turn crimson with blood.

Jon looked down at the girl. Maester Aemon mentioned that she already developed a fever. Jon leaned down and wiped some of the hair that clung to the sweat on her face. "I promised I would keep you safe," he whispered, unsure if she could hear him or not. Incase she could hear him he added, "I intend to honour that promise." If anyone even thought about touching her as she slept, they would have him to contend with.

Dragging a stool, across the small room he set it beside the head of the bed facing the door. Sitting down, leaning his back against the cool stonewall, he stared at the closed door; with one hand resting on Longclaw Jon settled in and began his watch.


End file.
